


Meet You At the Moon

by FreshBrains



Category: Glee
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Biting, F/F, Fingerfucking, Kissing, New York City, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Build, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn Fabray is the next big thing, and Rachel is an aspiring Broadway star working for a small film magazine.  August is too hot and Manhattan is too big, but Rachel is finally finding her place in the city once the glamorous, mysterious Miss Fabray enters her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by Dianna's beautiful [Galore photo spread](https://galoremag.com/dianna-agron-talks-bombshells-blonde-beauty-secrets-and-growing-up-in-the-bay/). I'm no historian, but the food and fashion is typical of the fifties and early sixties, and I hope I captured the time period well. Period-typical homophobia is alluded to, but no homophobic slurs are used.

“She’s the next big thing,” the late-night TV show hosts said, tugging their ties and blushing red as they introduced her, gawking at the silk of her hair and the creaminess of her skin.

“She’s the next big thing,” the newsboys said on the street corners, huddled over a crinkled copy of _Modern Screen_ magazine, tracing their index fingers over the grainy, black-and-white curve of her breast, the line of her legs.

“She’s the next big thing,” the schoolgirls tittered into the bathroom mirrors between classes, teasing their hair and fixing their lipstick in an attempt to copy the different looks she wore for different magazine spreads and film premiers. 

Everyone knew it. Everyone was saying it. Quinn Fabray was the next big thing.

Rachel Berry didn’t believe it.

*

“She’s the next big thing, Rachel,” Mr. Schuester said, leaning over his desk, his glasses dangling from the v-neck of his sweater-vest. “And I know you’re busy. But I need you to take this interview for me.”

Rachel winced as she looked down at the colorful array of magazines and newspapers on her editor’s desk, all blaring Quinn Fabray’s smoky gaze and sultry half-smile. “Why me? You know I hate starlet interviews. I can’t take a word they say seriously.” Rachel smoothed her palms down the neat, ironed front of her moss-green linen dress. 

The bright-haired new secretary leaned into the hallway with her hand covering the base of the telephone. “Mr. Schuester, call for you from Miss Bieste. She says it’s urgent.”

Schue swept a hand over his eyes, face drawn and stressed. “I have to take this. Rachel, the interview is yours. I trust you to do fine work. I’ll have Marley fill you in on the details.” He got up from behind his desk and buttoned his suit coat.

Rachel, never one to give up easily, followed him out of the room, clipping delicately on her sensible brown heels. “Mr. Schuester, why can’t Kurt do it? He’s done with class for the semester, but I still have an audition coming up. I need to rest.” 

“You also need to get paid,” Mr. Schue answered, not unkindly. “You’re an amazing performer, but you’re also a talented writer. If anyone can get a good interview out of an upcoming movie star, it would be you.” He gave her a smile and headed to the elevator to meet Bieste on the eighth floor.

Rachel sighed, shoulders slumped. Ever the professional, and turned to Marley’s desk. “Miss Rose, where will I be meeting Miss Fabray today?”

Marley turned to her with a kind smile—she was a good girl, just out of school and freshly engaged to a handsome man from accounting. “I spoke to Miss Fabray’s assistant earlier today. She’d like you meet her at the Ginger Café on…”

“I’ve heard of it,” Rachel said with a grimace. “It’s not exactly a casual corner.”

Marley gave her a sympathetic look and handed her an envelope. Rachel thought for a moment about how ill-suited Marley was for the job; she was too soft and sweet. The editors would tear her apart if she didn’t harden up a little. “Mr. Schuester left you with money for expenses, at least. Tell me how it is…I heard all the Broadway girls eat there.”

Rachel nodded, a hard knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. Someday, she would be a Broadway girl, eating at the Ginger Café—but she wasn’t quite there yet. “Wish me luck.”

*

The café wasn’t the sort Rachel usually frequented, mainly because her budget didn’t allow her to frequent anyplace where a cup of coffee cost as much as a new pair of shoes. It was a cute little place, all dolled up in lace tablecloths and fine china teapots to look lived-in and homey on the side of the grubby city streets, and separated from the garbage cans and litter by a small, white mock picket fence. But Rachel could tell it was a hot spot—she saw Kitty Wilde sitting at one of the tables, laughing outrageously with a handsome boy, and one of the casting directors from a play Rachel auditioned for (and didn’t get) months earlier was waiting outside the locale, checking her dainty silver watch every few seconds.

Rachel knew she wasn’t a part of the usual clientele—the women were uptown girls, stylish in pale furs and pearls, women who either drank cocktails and walked their dogs all day or women who had high-paying office jobs and smoked cigarettes all through lunch. All of the office girls wore hats with their mock Chanel suits, pretty pillbox things in bright colors—it was their calling card. Rachel was an office girl of a different breed—she was at the bottom of the barrel.

“Excuse me, Miss, are you lost?” The hostess asked her, voice stiff and smile fake.

Rachel cleared her throat and approached the hostess stand, feeling like a church mouse in her work dress, her hair frizzy after the long morning. “Yes, I’m here to meet Miss Quinn Fabray for an interview. My name should be on the reservation list…Rachel Berry?”

The hostess checked the list, eyebrows raised. The casting director glanced in Rachel’s direction and sighed. Rachel felt sweat drip down the small of her back. _Come on, I know I’m on the list…don’t make me stand here like a fool…_

The hostess looked up and gave her a sickly-sweet smile. “Yes, of course, here you are. I’ll lead you to your table. Miss Fabray arrived a few minutes ago.”

“She’s here already?” Rachel felt her face burn—it was bad form to arrive to an interview after the subject.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t worry about it,” the hostess said, softening a bit as they wove through the white iron tables and chairs to the far edge of the patio. “Miss Fabray is always early.”

Rachel adjusted her hair and smoothed her dress one last time, and when she looked up, she was Quinn Fabray in person for the very first time. 

She lounged in one of small, white iron chairs, body relaxed and smooth, long legs crossed at the ankle in the aisle. She took up space like a man; she didn’t bother folding in on herself or tucking the folds of her skirt beneath her legs. It was her table and she was going to claim it. 

But the very first thing Rachel noticed was how her black stockings were striped with runs on both legs, from her thighs to her pump-clad feet, revealing milky glances of pale skin. It was almost shocking, seeing that sort of disarray amidst the pale-toned and garden-hued locale of the café, and it was especially shocked to see them among the high collars and buttoned suits of the other lunching women. _Can’t she afford new stockings? She’s in the movies, for heaven’s sake_ , Rachel thought.

Rachel opened her mouth to say hello, still looking at the runs in the black nylon, but before she could get a word out, Quinn said, “You’re a brunette. I wasn’t expecting that. You sounded like a redhead on the phone.”

Rachel swallowed, eyes darting up to Quinn’s face. “Oh—we never spoke on the phone, Miss Fabray.” Quinn raised her eyebrows and languidly shifted her body to one side, resting her chin on her hand. “You must be referring to Miss Rose, my editor’s secretary.”

“Is she a redhead?” Quinn coolly held up two fingers to the hostess, who pulled out Rachel’s chair for her before scampering away. 

“Yes, she is, actually.” Rachel sat down stiffly and soon discovered she could not look away from Quinn Fabray. In one word, the woman was _magnetic_ —everything about her drew attention. Her hair was soft and gently curled, not even long enough to graze her shoulders, and it gleamed the color of wheat in the warm, mid-summer New York sun. Her face was delicate and doll-like, painted in rose lipstick and dark makeup, silvery and smoky against her blue eyes. 

But it was the dress, the dress and the stockings, that Rachel couldn’t peel her eyes away from. Quinn was known in the magazines for her fashion sense, always making friends with new designers who handmade her frocks and suits and sunglasses, but Rachel wasn’t used to seeing it in person. Quinn’s dress was sheer and black with gold Swiss dots freckling the entire confection like drops of sunshine. Her hips and chest were covered with silky black panels, giving her an air of modesty, but her stomach and collar and arms were bared beneath the transparent overlay of the thigh-length dress. Rachel never saw a girl wear a dress like that during the day, away from cocktails and dancing—it simply wasn’t done.

“Do you like it?” Quinn asked, voice breathy.

Rachel startled and looked away Quinn’s half-bare midsection. “Pardon?”

“My dress,” Quinn laughed. “It’s brand new. This is the first time I’ve worn it. Do you like it?” She stretched her body out on the chair and tilted her head back, letting the sun warm her neck and arms, back arched as she showed Rachel the entire piece.

Rachel nodded and smiled politely. “Yes, it’s lovely. I wouldn’t be able to wear it, though.”

“And why is that?” Rachel noted that Quinn’s voice wasn’t snapping or judgmental—it was almost lonely, like she secretly liked being asked questions, she wanted to be pestered. It was confusing for a journalist.

Rachel didn’t know how to answer without sounding catty, and she worried she’d already blown the interview. “I’m not sure how it would look in the office,” she said delicately. When Quinn didn’t answer, just kept looking at her with her smoky blue eyes, Rachel continued. “It’s a dress that deserves to be seen, is all.”

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Quinn’s small, bowstring mouth widened into a genuine smile, sweet and pretty. “I agree. I certainly agree, Miss…” She held her hand out towards Rachel. “I’m sorry, we were never formally introduced.”

“Berry.” She took Quinn’s hand and realized it was just as nice as the rest of her—short, pink-polished fingernails, the pads of her fingers cool and dry, a gold bracelet studded with diamonds dangling on her thin wrist. “Rachel Berry.”

Quinn licked her lips, eyes narrowed, like she was trying to make sense of Rachel. “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Berry. I’m going to be honest—I’m not great at these interviews. They usually send men, and all they’re interested in is what sort of dates I like to go on and what sort of men I’m sweet on. It gets rather exhausting after a while.” Quinn fluffed her blond cloud of hair, sweeping it over to one side in the new casual way women wore their hair in the movies.

Rachel didn’t know what to say—she wasn’t given an interview outline before Mr. Schuester rushed out the door, or even a main objective, making her job difficult. “Well, I won’t ask you any questions about your private life. We’re a film magazine, and we’re interested in the films. I understand you’ve just finished shooting _A Man’s World_ in Los Angeles, is this correct?” Rachel opened her soft leather briefcase and retrieved her neat notepad and pencil. When she was met with silence, she looked up again.

Quinn was still staring at her, still picking her apart, and Rachel wondered what she could possibly see that wasn’t already there for the taking—Rachel was just a working girl, a beginner stage actor, someone who did their day job quickly and neatly and moved onto other jobs. But Quinn looked at her like she was _someone_. 

“Miss Fabray?” Rachel goaded gently. A waitress came by and quietly placed a silver dish of salted almonds and two bright green mint juleps on the table before swishing away. 

Quinn’s eyes refocused and she looked away, scanning the lunch offerings. “Yes, of course. The film. Thank you for asking. We just wrapped up final scenes in Santa Monica, actually.” She plucked an almond from the dish and popped it in her mouth, salt gathering on her lips. 

Rachel hastily jotted that down on her pad. “What was filming like?”

“Oh, it was nice, I suppose. My co-stars were sweet but you know how it is with men—you give them an inch and they want a mile. They had quite the ruckus over me behind the scenes.” Quinn’s face reddened. “Well, look at me. You were such a pet, reassuring me you wouldn’t ask nosy questions, and here I am gossiping.”

Rachel considered for a moment before striking a line though her recent note. “That’s alright, we can keep that off the record.” She thought quickly— _who are her costars_? “Why don’t you just give me a quote about working with Mr. Hudson and…”

“Mr. Puckerman,” Quinn supplied, shoulders sagging in relief. “Oh gosh, you really are a doll. Some people would jump all over that, you know.” She took a long sip of her julep, the condensation beading on her fingertips, and shook out her hair like she was composing herself. “A quote, of course. Well, both men are good to work with. They’re prompt, they know their lines, and they have wonderful screen presence. I was lucky to work with them.” 

“What was your favorite scene to film with them?”

Quinn thought for a moment and shrugged, playing with the straw in her drink. “I don’t know. I was much fonder of the beach dance numbers with the extras, to be frank. You haven’t touched your drink, did you want something else?”

Rachel wrote down the quote but couldn’t help notice how detached Quinn sounded. She was hoping for something a little more glittery—nothing scandalous or tawdry, just something that brought the readers into the world of Quinn Fabray, into the lights and cameras. But Quinn spoke about her handsome, popular costars like they were little more than props. She took a small sip of her drink—it was cool and refreshing. “This is fine, thank you. Let’s see…what drew you to _A Man’s World_? I’ve heard that there was quite a scuffle over the script for a few months. It was very popular.”

Quinn grinned into the sun and ran a hand through her hair. “Yes, I worked hard on my audition. I suppose there were many girls waiting by their telephones for the callback, but the casting director chose me right away.” She picked up the menu and tapped her bottom lip with her index finger. “What would you like to order? What are you hungry for?”

Rachel finished her note. “I’ll have whatever you want.”

Quinn smiled, small and brief. “You really are sweet. You’re one of the good ones, I can tell.” She leaned out into the aisle and waved a waitress over. “Yes, we’d like two of the orange-and-Bermuda onion salads, two bowls of the asparagus soup, and two Kempinski Cocktails after the juleps, please.” Rachel barely had time to blink.

“I have to go back to work after this, I’m not sure I should be drinking,” Rachel said nervously.

Quinn waved her protest away. “Oh, you’ll be alright. Now, the film. I was attached to the script right away. Mr. Abrams is a fine screenwriter and I had the utmost respect for his previous work…”

“Artie?” Rachel blurted out before thinking.

Quinn raised an eyebrow, hand still lingering over the tray of almonds. “Yes, Artie Abrams, do you know him?”

Rachel looked down demurely—she wasn’t supposed to bring herself up in interview, but she couldn’t help it, especially since _Quinn Fabray_ knew Artie. “I was in his play last year, _Silly Love Songs_. It was small, but…”

Quinn sat up straight and laughed. “Oh goodness, yes, I knew you looked familiar! You were in the lead. Oh, you were so cute, in your pink sweater and skirt…” Quinn stopped herself quickly, as if she swore and wanted to pardon herself. “I mean, you were wonderful.”

Rachel flushed with pride, trying to reign in her ego. “Thank you very much.”

“So why are you here, interviewing some screen star who acts in beach movies and drive-in double features?” Quinn didn’t sound bitter with Rachel, she sounded bitter with herself, a drastic change from only seconds ago when she chattered cheerfully in her breathy, lilting voice about scripts and callbacks.

Rachel frowned. “You’re a film actress. You’ve had major roles with big-name directors and actors. Don’t be so quick to belittle yourself.”

Quinn shrugged and rolled her eyes—even that was pretty and somehow unassuming. “I appreciate your kindness, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a slump right now. I feel best when I’m filming, and when it ends all of a sudden, I feel like I’ve been dropped off a cliff.”

Rachel felt a cool tingle run up her spine—she knew exactly what Quinn was talking about. She always felt at home on stage, singing in some tiny venue with poor lighting, makeup caked on her face and costume heels pinched too tight on her feet. It was everything else in the world that scared her. She smiled a little at Quinn. “But you’re the next big thing. So they say.”

At this, Quinn laughed out loud, but it was more of a bark. “Yes, I’ve been hearing that. But I think Miss Wilde over there would beg to differ.” She shot a glance at Kitty’s table across the restaurant, pursing her lips in a mean air kiss, which Kitty gladly returned. 

Rachel scoffed, forgetting her paper and pencil for a moment. “She’s nothing compared to you.” Rachel didn’t know where it came from, that sentiment—she’d never seen one of Quinn’s films, or really had an interest in her career. Despite _A Man’s World_ , which was already being discussed in the Academy Awards circles as a hot film for the coming winter, Quinn hadn’t done the sort of work that caught Rachel’s attention in the film magazines.

“Thank you, Rachel,” Quinn said softly, sincerely, and it gave Rachel an odd thrill that they were on a first-name basis already.

Quinn was different than Rachel expected. She was charming, patient, candid. She could laugh, but there was also a darkness inside her. Rachel was getting pulled under by this woman, she could already feel it. But in the end, Rachel Berry was a professional, and she did her job.

“I have a few basic questions to ask you, just for the bio portion of the interview, and then we can delve a little deeper into your career. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Quinn said, but her smile faltered. She brightened back up when the waitress set their lunch down on the table. “I’m just starving; I haven’t had a big lunch in months. I’m dying to stuff myself.”

Rachel had to admit; the food looked and smelled delicious—crisp greens, fresh fruit, and warm soup to polish it off. With a start, Rachel realized she’d downed off entire drink during the interview, and hoped she could eat away the lightheadedness that was already making itself at home behind her eyes.

“There’s nothing like eating out in the sunlight,” Quinn hummed, folding a napkin over her lap. “It makes me feel like a little girl again.”

“Where did you grow up?” Rachel asked. She was honestly trying to make conversation, but it came off as an unsubtle interview tactic.

“Is this for the record, or for pleasant lunchtime conversation?” Quinn blew gently on a spoonful of soup.

“How about I write down the basic details, and we’ll keep the rest between us girls,” Rachel said, using a phrase she and her childhood pals used when telling secrets.

Quinn giggled like she’d been told a great joke. “I suppose that will work for me. Well, let’s see. I was born in a very small town in the Midwest. My father moved us to the suburbs after the war when I was only small, and I spent the rest of my youth on playgrounds and sidewalks.” Quinn spoke carefully, like she was trying to edit herself as the words came out. “It was a pleasant childhood. I was very active in my church—I sang in the choir every Sunday.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No, it was just me. The little golden daughter,” she said around a forkful of greens. “I was supposed to marry young, have children, and become a housewife like my mother. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I had to go out into the world.”

“I bet that was hard,” Rachel said earnestly.

Quinn finished her drink. “Not as hard as I thought it would be. I’m happy where I am now,” she said resolutely, like she was trying to convince herself. “Where are those cocktails? I’m dry already.” She waved to the waitress again.

“When did you leave home?”

“When I was eighteen…no, nineteen. Somewhere around there. I spent a few months on the road, being one of those beat poets, or should I say befriending those beat poets. I was always better at pretending to be someone original than being a true original myself. But I did meet Mr. Ginsberg, and we was alright, he really was.” The waitress set down two frothy drinks in martini glasses, and Quinn immediately picked hers up for a sip. “Then I moved onto New York City, which I loved. It’s so big here, so endless. It’s perfect for the type of girl who spent her life with the same few dozen nosy neighbors.”

“Have you done a film here before?” Rachel thought about the beaches and cabanas in Quinn’s previous films and thought the possibility was unlikely.

“Not yet, but I’d like to. California is nice, but it’s too elite. Everyone has a secret, but everyone _knows_ each other’s secrets. It’s a very catty environment.” Quinn traced the edge of her martini glass with a manicured fingernail. “I’m a girl with a few secrets I’d like to keep under wraps.”

Rachel swallowed heavily as she moved her pencil across the page.

She had a page of notes already—enough for a decent sized bio article in the back of the magazine. But instead of packing up her things and requesting the bill like she usually did when her job was done, she gingerly picked up her cocktail and took a sip. “What’s in this?”

Quinn plucked the maraschino cherry out of her glass and popped it in her mouth. “Grapefruit juice, rum, Cointreau. It tastes like a Manhattan summer, doesn’t it?”

After her second sip, Rachel knew she’d have a headache for the rest of the afternoon at work, but she nodded. “It really does.” The sun felt warmer than before, and Rachel uncrossed her legs, sitting more comfortably in her chair. As she shifted, Quinn smiled, and downed her cocktail.

“So Rachel,” she said, lacing her fingers together beneath her chin. “Where did you say you were from again?”

*

The world was bright and blue on that summer afternoon when Rachel allowed herself to be taken to Central Park with Quinn Fabray while halfway past tipsy on expensive lunchroom cocktails. 

“Let’s buy something to eat, I’m positively famished already. You’d think I eat like a bird with these little dresses, but I have an enormous appetite.” Quinn strode ahead of Rachel for most of the walk, tottering along on her high heels, exuding a languid energy that always seemed to simmer just under a boil. She stopped to pet every dog on a leash, examine the first fallen leaves in the grass, sit beside the fountain and dip her hands in the murky water. 

As she breezed towards a hot dog cart, the flared hem of her dress swished around her nylon-clad thighs, the material looking cloud-like and soft to the touch. Rachel’s throat was dry when she said, “I’ll buy.” She was too tipsy to be worried about Schue’s impending annoyance at her afternoon away from the office—she knew she could just tell him the interview took longer than expected. 

They sat on the edge of a stone fountain and ate their second lunch—hot dogs and popcorn and glass bottles of soda, like schoolgirls on a class trip. As Quinn licked mustard off her thumb, she asked, “You were awfully nice to me today. It’s refreshing, really.”

“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?” The carbs settled in her stomach and made her mind a little clearer. She usually hated eating after alcohol, but the drinks were light and frothy, enough to settle her stomach.

“Sometimes I’m not so nice. I try, but it’s hard. There are a lot of nice girls in the industry and they don’t last very long.” Quinn slid her shoes off her feet and rolled her toes out on the concrete, putting another run in the toe of her stockings.

Rachel thought of meek little Marley behind the desk at the office. “I have the opposite problem. I’ve always tried to catch more flies with honey.”

“Folks get sick of vinegar quite quickly, which is another problem. I’ve had nasty things said about me in the papers, but most of them aren’t true. They say I’m wild on set and I cause problems.”

“I’ve read that,” Rachel said honestly, quietly. “But you can never believe the gossip magazines.”

Quinn nodded, looking out into the park. “This industry is just like high school. I was a paper shaker—head cheerleader, actually. And everyone was so nasty to me, but I was even nastier to them. It was such a toxic world for a girl.”

Rachel looked down at her lap, balling up the paper her hot dog was wrapped in. She realized Quinn probably would’ve teased her in high school, made fun of her practice sessions in the auditorium, mocked her old-fashioned underwear and hairstyles in the girl’s locker room. “I’m glad we’re past that. We’re older, now. We’re ready to start over. Right?”

Quinn inhaled deeply and reached into her purse, pulling out a pair of dark rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses. She slid them over her eyes and said, “It sounds easy enough. I’ve been trying.”

Rachel sat quietly for a moment, wondering if Quinn wanted to change the conversation. “I should probably get back to the office soon. I’m sure you’re very busy as well.”

Quinn slid her shoes back on and stood, her shoulders sagged a little in disappointment. “Not so much in the city. But I understand. Let me reimburse you for lunch.”

Rachel held out her hands in protest. “No, that isn’t necessary. It was my pleasure.”

They walked together out of the park, and when they reached the street corner, Quinn hailed a cab for Rachel. 

“Do you need a ride anywhere?” The cabbie asked Quinn, but she shook her head.

“I like to walk back to my hotel.” Before Rachel tucked herself into the cab, Quinn surprised her by leaning in and kissing her on the cheek, lips warm and tacky from a reapplication of rosy lipstick. She smelled like crisp lavender perfume, baby powder, and fruity alcohol, and Rachel closed her eyes for a moment, letting the scent wash over her. “I hope the article is good. I’ll see you soon, Rachel.”

_Will you_? Rachel wanted to ask, but Quinn waved and walked down the street, dizzying in a flash of black silk and gold hair.

*  
Kurt came over the Rachel’s boarding house that night, despite Miss Pillsbury’s “no boys allowed” rule. She made special exceptions for Rachel and the two other working girls, Mercedes and Tina, as long as they stayed in the parlor or kitchen, and the girls in turn adored their kind, neat-as-a-pin landlady.

Rachel, of course, couldn’t tell Miss Pillsbury why exactly she and Kurt would have no issues whatsoever if left alone.

“I still can’t believe Schue sent you on that assignment. He should’ve sent me, I love interviewing the stars of the silver screen. I can charm the pants off them…metaphorically speaking,” Kurt said, glancing out the door at Miss Pillsbury in the kitchen. He lowered his voice. “Was she just as gorgeous as she is onscreen?”

“I don’t know, Kurt, you know I’ve never seen any of her films.” She took a sip of chamomile tea and lifted her feet into the divan, sore and tired after the long day. “But she was quite beautiful.” Her cheeks reddened, and she avoided Kurt’s expectant stare. “And interesting, and lively. There, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I _knew_ it,” Kurt hissed, face twisted into a maniacal grin. “I knew you’d be sweet on her!”

“Keep your voice down,” Rachel urged. “And I’m not sweet on her; I was just…surprised by her. She’s a character, and she has a lot to say.”

“Rachel, we’ve been in the city for three years, and you’ve been living here like a nun this whole time. New York isn’t Ohio, you know.” Kurt crossed his legs and shrugged, trying to be casual about everything, trying to be casual about what they both were, but Rachel knew he was still afraid sometimes.

“But I won’t be some no-name in an office forever. I’ll be on Broadway one day, and don’t give me that look,” she said darkly when Kurt rolled his eyes, “because we both know it’s true. I can’t…I can’t keep a secret like this if I’m onstage, if I’m _seen_ by people.”

Kurt nodded, mouth set in a grim line. He looked so much older in New York than he did in high school, which Rachel supposed was normal, but he looked _hardened_ somehow, like the city wasn’t what he thought it would be like. They grew up together as children, went to the same school, graduated together, and remained close friends the entire time. The older folks talked about Kurt in their hometown, spread rumors about him, but he never once faltered under their pressure. (“Things will be different in the city,” he always said.)

But nobody ever suspected anything about good-girl Rachel, the one who sang in school plays and aced all of her exams and volunteered at the daycare center. 

“Have you considered…that thing I told you about?”

Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. “No. I told you, we’d regret it. We deserve better.”

Months after they moved to the city after graduation, Kurt told Rachel about a friend he met at one of the men’s after-hours bars, the ones that changed location every month or so. Dave married a girl he met in high school, a girl who had no interest in being a wife but wanted the social stability of a married woman. Dave was gay and didn’t want to be found out because he’d lose his job. Their union was based on friendship and affection, but was in no way romantic.

“A front marriage might be the best option for us. We could live together, and keep each other’s secrets. We could make it work.” Kurt tried to sound convincing, but Rachel knew he was just tired and scared, just like her.

Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “It _would_ work. You’re right. We could work and see whoever we want, and nobody would be suspicious. But what happens in ten years, fifteen years, when we both meet people we want to spend our lives with? What happens when we want children?”

“Dave’s wife is pregnant,” Kurt said carefully, maintaining eye contact with Rachel. “There are ways to get what we want and need, Rachel. It’s just harder for people like us.”

_People like us_ , Rachel thought, frowning. _Are there any other people like us in this huge city, or are we just as alone as we were in Ohio?_ “I just don’t know if I could do that,” she said softly. “I don’t know if I could live that lie.”

Kurt nodded sympathetically. “I understand. But I want you to think about it, okay? I’m always here for you, through the good and the bad.” He leaned over and patted Rachel’s leg.

“My, aren’t you two getting cozy,” a nervous voice said from the doorway. Miss Pillsbury stood, wringing her hands, eyes on Rachel’s knee.

Kurt pulled his hand back. “Oh, hello, Miss Pillsbury. We’re just having a chat, I promise.”

“No funny business,” she warned playfully, taking away their tea tray.

Rachel and Kurt shared a look and tried not to laugh.

*

“This is fine work, Rachel,” Schue said the next day, scanning Rachel’s rough copy of the Fabray article. “You must’ve had a wonderful interview. She usually isn’t this candid.”

Rachel cleared her throat politely and looked anywhere but at Schue—if he only knew how much she actually edited out of their interview, he wouldn’t have such glowing reviews. “It was a lovely afternoon. She’s quite an interesting person.”

The article was only a page long, with the headline “Coming Up Quinn.” It was a basic new celebrity bio, outlining the basic facts (age, birthplace, film credits) with a few small anecdotes sprinkled in. Despite the back-of-the-magazine location, Rachel was eager to see it in print and hoped Quinn would read it.

Schue nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your time with her, because she’s going to be a big star soon. If her next film gets Oscar recognition, we’re putting you on all of her interview assignments.”

Rachel’s stomach flipped a little, and she suppressed a smile. “I’d be glad to interview her again, Mr. Schuester.”

As Rachel turned to leave the office, Schue said, “One more thing. Which photograph do you think we should use? Jake took two yesterday afternoon.”

Rachel leaned over the desk, looking at the prints. One of them was taken in the living room of Quinn’s hotel room. She looked a little stiff, but still pretty in the same black and gold dress she wore for the interview. Her high heels dug into the carpet and she had her hands neatly folded in her lap.

The second one was taken out on the hotel balcony, with her sitting on a lawn chair. Her eyes were closed and the breeze ruffled her hair; her arms were in the air like she was photographed mid-stretch. But the best part was her smile—it was bright, genuine, and unfiltered, a smile Rachel never wanted to stop looking at.

“This one,” Rachel said, pointing to the second picture. “Definitely this one.”

*

A week and a half later, just as Rachel was getting back to her old routine of work, audition, and more work, Miss Pillsbury received a phone call on a Saturday morning.

“Rachel, honey, there’s a Quinn on the telephone for you,” Miss Pillsbury called from the bottom of the stairs, and Rachel immediately dropped her hot curling iron on the cushioned seat of her vanity, burning a hole in the pink satin. She cursed and picked up the iron, setting it carefully on its stand, her heart pounding the entire time. 

Her mind raced as she ran down the stairs two at a time, still in her nightgown and bathrobe. _It can’t be…someone must be playing a prank on me…I never even gave her the boarding house phone number_.

“Yes, hello, this is Rachel,” she said breathlessly into the phone, expecting to hear the muffled giggle of one of the girls at the office.

Instead, she was greeted by Quinn’s breezy, sunny voice. “Good morning, Rachel, so sorry to call so early. I didn’t realize how early my plane got in.”

“Oh, um…don’t think anything of it,” Rachel stammered, stomach clenching in excitement. “Where were you?” She wrapped the coiled phone cord around her wrist.

“I was in Los Angeles for a few days, doing some final press work for _A Man’s World_. I’m glad to be back in the city, it’s so dreadfully hot there, and the men are just barbarians.” There was a car horn and a police siren in the background, and Rachel knew Quinn was on a pay telephone. “I was hoping you’d accompany me for an outing tonight.”

Rachel ran a hand through her half-curled hair and tried to steady her voice. “Oh, yes. I would love to.”

“Perfect! I can come by your home. What time shall I pick you up?”

When Rachel put the phone back down on the cradle, her fingers were shaking and she just couldn’t stop smiling.

*

“May I tell you a secret, Rachel?” Quinn leaned over in the cab and spoke low and warm in Rachel’s ear, breath washing over her bangs.

“Of course,” Rachel answered sincerely, wondering if her peach-pink leather t-strap shoes and white pin-striped stockings were too Pollyana for their outing or if her neat pinned-up hairstyle was too daytime for wherever Quinn was taking her. But when she got in the cab, Quinn just gave her a blinding white smile and looked nothing but cheerful and sweet.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes this morning on the telephone,” Quinn said, her smile sly but her eyes downcast, like she was a little embarrassed.

Rachel leaned back a little, eyes wide with surprise. “You must be joking. I didn’t think you were serious, asking me out to dinner.”

“And why wouldn’t I be serious?”

Rachel blushed and looked out the cab window. It was already getting dark—the days were the longest of the year, but it seemed Quinn preferred late dinners. “Well, you’re a film star. You must have many friends who would be much more fun to go out with.”

Quinn dug into her tiny, sapphire-blue silk purse and pulled out a gold, rhinestone-studded compact. She popped it open and examined her nose and cheeks, even though her skin was dewy and glowing. “I don’t have famous friends. They’re catty and mean and they make everything a competition.” She snapped the compact closed and tossed it onto the seat rather than tucking it back into her purse. “I’d much rather be friends with people in many different occupations.”

“Well, I’m only writing for the money,” Rachel said as nicely as possible. “I’m going to be a Broadway star.” She steeled herself, expecting the sympathetic eyes and barking laughter she was usually greeted with whenever she told anyone about her future.

But Quinn only nodded solemnly and yawned delicately into her palm. “Oh, I know. I’m made for film, you see—the hair, the smile. It only goes as far as the screen. But you, Rachel—you belong on a stage, right in front of everyone, performing like you’d die if you couldn’t. I saw it in _Silly Love Songs_.” She looked over at Rachel, the lights from the cars and shops illuminating her face. She looked tired, her eyes a little swollen. “We’re not the same type, you and I. We can be friends just fine.”

Rachel’s chest warmed at the resolute, slightly awed tone of Quinn’s voice, and she smiled at Quinn. “I’m glad. I would enjoy being your friend. But I have to tell you a secret, as well.”

Quinn bit her lip. “Alright, tell me.”

Rachel leaned in and felt the satin of her pearl-grey cocktail dress stick against the seat. “I haven’t seen any of your films yet.”

At this, Quinn laughed out loud, clapping like a little girl, and Rachel knew they were going to have a wonderful night.

*

The bar was small, smoky, and dimly lit, but Rachel didn’t mind—it was just the sort of place she could imagine Quinn slinking around in. Once they got out of the cab and stepped inside, Quinn peeled off her leopard fur coat and hung it over the crook of her arm, revealing a short, tight black cocktail dress with a triangle of bare flesh revealed just above her belly button.

Rachel allowed herself only a moment, only a _second_ , of wanting—wanting to nose the soft baby skin of Quinn’s stomach until Quinn laughed, wanting to lick a line from Quinn’s navel to the plane of smooth skin between her breasts, just wanting to _touch_ her. But before she could even enjoy the fantasy, she shut it down in her mind.

“What is this place?” Rachel asked, craning her neck to try to see the neon sign outside.

“It’s called Nyada,” Quinn said over the laughter and loud jazz music. “It’s pretty new, but I’ve been here a few times. The drinks are good, but the dancing is _great_.”

Rachel’s stomach swooped a little at the thought of dancing with Quinn—not twisting and hand-jiving like in high school when she’d go to dances with her girlfriends, but _real_ dancing, bodies pressed close, cheek-to-cheek, hands wandering down backs. It was nearly intoxicating, and the night was already making her believe that was possible—the smoke in the air, the smell of wine and beer, the corrugated tin walls—it felt like a place of newness, of possibilities. “Do you like to dance?”

“Depends on who I’m dancing with,” Quinn said with a wink, and grabbed Rachel’s hand. “Let’s get drinks.”

The bar was busy, but not seedy—it was an adult place for people who wanted a good time with relatively little fuss or trouble. The women were dressed in any combination of nighttime attire—taffeta prom-like dresses with gloves, kitten heels, slinky cocktail numbers with feathers and sequins, furs and diamonds, wild colors and wilder hairstyles. Rachel was glad she didn’t appear out of place as she passed a woman in a yellow chiffon dress and a gelled beehive up-do giggling with another woman dressed in a red and black polka-dotted number and a black felt hat with a bird on top of it. The men all dressed similarly in suits and shirts, some of them with their sleeves rolled up and their ties loosened, but their hairstyles ranged from ducktails to mullets and their shoes from wingtips to sneakers.

“What sort of place is this?” She asked, looking around like an awed child. A colorful jukebox poured music out in the corner, and the bar was long and shiny and manned with three bartenders, two female and one male. The dance-floor was already packed and cheerful. It wasn’t like the stuffy cocktail parties Rachel was used to attending with her co-workers—it was much too _happy_.

“It’s a place for people who have nowhere better to be,” Quinn said, leaning over the bar. “I’m tired of the A-list spots. I always feel like I’m putting on a show. What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll just have a Manhattan, please.”

“Two Manhattans, sweetheart,” Quinn requested from one of the female bartenders. She paid for the drinks before Rachel could protest.

“Fancy meeting you here, boss,” a voice said from behind Rachel, and before Rachel could turn around, Quinn’s face broke into a grin and she elbowed past Rachel, greeting the guest with a hug.

“Brittany, I had no idea you’d be here, I would have picked you up on the way!” 

Brittany was tall, skinny, and gleamingly blond with the prettiest perm Rachel had ever seen, made only prettier by her bright blue eyes. She wore a sky-blue taffeta dress with a giant crepe rose on the hip, and a tiny black and blue top hat tilted to one side of her head. There was something undeniably childlike about her in the way she smiled and sat with her elbows on the bar, but there was a glint of kindness in her eyes.

“That’s okay, I’m here with Sam. He likes when they play the rockabilly songs on the jukebox, and I’m usually the best dancer here.” She nodded towards the dance floor, where a handsome blond boy in an untucked plaid shirt danced wildly with a short, dark-haired guy in a red bowtie. 

Quinn stepped back and smiled at Rachel. “This is Brittany, my New York assistant. She’s the sweetest, most trustworthy person I know.” Rachel held her hand out, and Brittany shook it eagerly. “Britt, this is Rachel, my lovely new friend.”

Rachel took a sip of her drink and tried to smile, but Brittany was just so bright and pretty— _how can I compete with her_? She felt silly even thinking it. What was she competing for—attention? Affection? The whole situation settled uneasily in Rachel’s stomach. No matter how humble she tried to be, she still liked to win.

“Rachel?” Quinn leaned in and waved her hand. 

“Yes, sure,” Rachel stammered to the expectant Quinn and Brittany, embarrassed that she let her mind wander.

“Then come on,” Brittany said cheerfully, extending her hand.

“Pardon?”

“Let’s dance,” Brittany said with a giggle, and before Rachel could make an excuse, she was being pulled onto the dance floor.

It was hot and smelled like hair gel and baby powder; everyone was too close together. Brittany took up with Sam instantly, and gestured to his dark-haired friend. “Rachel, this is Blaine. He’s a fine dancer; you’ll have fun with him.”

Rachel craned her neck and saw Quinn still leaning against the bar, eyebrow cocked in either amusement or displeasure, Rachel couldn’t tell. She swallowed heavily and turned to smile at Blaine. “I enjoy dancing, but I might step on your toes.”

Blaine smiled kindly. “That’s alright, I’ll survive. That’s a fine dress.” He placed his hand on her hip and they began to sway to the slow, pumping music, closer than at a school dance but not as lively as the previous song.

“Thank you,” Rachel said, and knew deep down Blaine would not try to sneak a kiss or a touch. 

Blaine dipped her gently and they fell back into step. It was nice, dancing slow like that; But Rachel would still rather be back against the bar with Quinn, sharing a whispered conversation over drinks. “So, Rachel, where did you meet our Quinn?”

“I interviewed her for _New Directions_ , the magazine I work for. We did a short bio on her.” Rachel let Blaine twirl her gently.

Blaine smiled—he had a lovely, sincere smile. “Of course, I’ve read _New Directions_. I’m fond of the gentleman who writes some of the stage reviews…what’s his name? Hummel?”

Rachel nodded. “Yes, he’s my friend, Kurt Hummel. Perhaps you could meet him some time.” A warm, excited feeling flooded through Rachel’s chest at the idea of both her and Kurt finding someone to love, but she tried not to dwell on it.

“I’d like that,” Blaine said.

They danced for a bit, but soon, Rachel drifted back over to the bar—back to Quinn, who was only half finished with her drink and wearing a cross expression.

“Are you alright?” Rachel asked.

Quinn sighed. “Yes, it’s just that I wanted you to myself tonight. I wanted to talk to you, dance with you. I suppose I’m selfish that way.”

Rachel couldn’t stop a smile from curling onto her face. “Would you like to dance, Quinn?”

*

Quinn was a careful dancer, a little stiff, but surprisingly lithe and graceful. Her perfume was sweet, her eyes were bright, and when Rachel accidentally touched the triangle of bare skin on Quinn’s stomach with her wrist, she felt herself instantly go wet.

It was wonderful, and completely unbearable.

“I’m having a fine night,” Quinn said, loud over the din of music and voices.

Rachel closed her eyes and lost herself in the music, arms around Quinn like she was never going to let her go.

*

Quinn slid into the cab, chucking her purse onto the middle of the seat like she did with her compact mirror before. “I’m staying at the Algonquin hotel,” she said blithely, running a hand through her mass of hair. “I sold my apartment in California.”

Rachel didn’t know how to respond to this, so she remained silent, drinking in the tired look around Quinn’s eyes and the paleness of her arms and legs in the dark cab. Finally, she asked, “Are you moving here? For good?”

Quinn hesitated a little before nodding. “I’m ready to do a film here. I want to stay here for a little while.” She bit her bottom lip, plump and pink between her teeth. “I want to be near my favorite people.”

Rachel inhaled sharply, and her heart pounded. _She can’t mean me, she barely knows me. Stop building this up in your mind, you’ll only end up disappointed._

“Will you come with me?” Quinn whipped her head in Rachel’s direction as she spoke, so suddenly Rachel flinched.

“Where?” Rachel asked with wide eyes, even though she knew she’d follow Quinn anywhere.

“To the Algonquin. The hotel. Will you come with me?” She was speaking in her soft voice, private and gentle, the voice Rachel liked best.

“Of course,” Rachel whispered, and she had no idea what to expect but she knew it would be worth anything, it would be worth a bad reputation, a lie of a marriage with a man who preferred men, a life full of secrets and shame and hushed affairs. 

She would give anything to go back to the hotel with Quinn.

*

“I never thought I’d meet a woman like you,” Quinn said as she slid her key into the lock of her hotel room door and pushed it open, letting cool conditioned air bring goose bumps to their bare arms. The room was dark and bathed in blue moonlight; it looked like Quinn had barely settled in. There was a suitcase on the dresser, unopened, and two garment bags hanging in the open armoire. Quinn didn’t turn the light on. Instead, she lingered in the entryway and tossed her coat onto her suitcase. “You’re just how I pictured New Yorkers would be when I was a child, even though you weren’t born here. Do you know what I mean?”

Instead of responding, Rachel licked her lips and turned to Quinn, bringing her shaking hands up to cup Quinn’s face. Her skin was slightly sweaty, damp from the nighttime August air, and as Rachel leaned in, Quinn’s lips parted. The door closed and blocked off the light from the hallway, and Rachel felt bolder in the dark.

“Don’t do it unless you mean it,” Quinn whispered, eyes glassy in the moonlight.

“I mean it,” Rachel answered, and bridged the space between them, touching her lips to Quinn’s.

Rachel was innocent, but she wasn’t a child. She’d had kisses with boys before, chaste little pecks in backseats of cars and back rows of movie theaters, dry uninspired things that involved red faces and pursed lips and very little in response on Rachel’s part. She always thought it was expected of her, putting up a little resistance—good girls didn’t let boys put their tongues in their mouths or their hands on their breasts. She never thought she was supposed to get anything out of it.

But that first kiss with Quinn, that first sticky touch of lips on lips, was nothing like kisses with high school boys. It was softer, sweeter, more delicate and bolder at the same time. Quinn rested her small hands on Rachel’s shoulders, careful not to push or pull. She ducked her head and they both breathed for a moment before Quinn rasped, “Do it again.”

Rachel didn’t need to be told twice. She leaned in, tilting her head slightly, and took Quinn’s bottom lip up with her teeth, a barely-there gentle nibble, before pressing a kiss to the spot she bit and moving to the top lip. She was categorizing every inch of Quinn, every bit of skin and bone, every piece of her. She wanted to feel it all. 

Quinn sighed, letting her fingers tighten around the cap sleeves of Rachel’s dress. “That’s nice,” she said, sweet breath fanning across Rachel’s face, and Rachel felt a surge of arousal as Quinn went in for a harder kiss, something deeper and more passionate. A real movie kiss. When her small, kittenish tongue pressed against the loose seam of Rachel’s lips, Rachel parted her lips eagerly, letting Quinn inside, letting her take whatever she wanted.

Quinn moaned into Rachel’s mouth, their bodies pressed together tight enough for Rachel to feel the hot, firm press of Quinn’s breasts against her own, an exhilarating feeling that sent her cunt clenching. It was foreign and familiar at once, the heft and roundness of breasts, but it was so apparent that this was _new_ , this was another person who was trusting Rachel with their body, trusting her with the softest, most sensitive parts of themselves, and before Rachel could think, she gasped into the kiss and pressed Quinn to the wall, squeezing her breasts with both hands.

Quinn wrapped her arms around Rachel and arched into the touch, squirming like she couldn’t get Rachel close enough. She dipped in height, falling down a few inches, and Rachel realized that she’d kicked off her high heels as Quinn hitched a thigh up over Rachel’s hip and pulled her in tighter.

“I knew it would be like this,” Quinn gasped, pressing a kiss to the side of Rachel’s face, her cheek, her jaws, peppering kisses wherever she could reach. “I knew you’d be good like this. Too much ambition in you to keep it inside.” 

“How did you know?” Rachel’s voice came out raw and dirty, surprising her. “How did you know I wanted this?” She moved her hands up to cup Quinn’s face and kissed her again before she could answer, licking into her mouth, tasting all of her.

“I just…” Quinn gasped as Rachel pulled away. Her cheeks were hot and flushed in the dark. “You never looked at me like I was something to be caught. Something to be tamed. You just… _looked_ at me.” With that, she lowered her mouth, hair tickling against Rachel’s elbow, and pressed a bruising kiss to the soft area between neck and shoulder. Rachel shuddered at the pressure and reached down to grab Quinn’s ass, feeling the curve of it through the silk of her dress and panty hose. She ground Quinn’s body into her own and moaned as Quinn’s leg pressed against her cunt, sending swells of pleasure all the way down to her toes.

She wound her hands in Quinn’s hair and asked, clear but soft, “Will you come to bed with me?”

The dark hummed around them. Their chests heaved together with hard breaths; their hands shook as they touched each other on the back, arms, face. Finally, Quinn nodded. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

They tumbled onto the bed, limbs tangled, Quinn’s panty hose already halfway down her legs and Rachel’s dress unzipped to the small of her back.

Outside, the city buzzed on below them, but they only heard each other.

*

Rachel had never been that bare with another person before; nobody had ever seen the pink-brown clench between her legs, put their fingers against the slick folds, or ran their hands over the stiff tan points of her nipples, swollen from arousal and kisses.

Two pairs of shoes, two dresses, one brassiere, two pairs of underpants…a necklace and two purses on the carpet, strewn wherever. The door was locked, the lights were off. The ceiling was pebbled white but Rachel could barely see it; she could barely open her eyes.

_Quinn…Quinn…Quinn…_ Rachel had no idea if she was thinking or speaking, she had no idea which way was up or where she was, but she knew the feeling of cool cotton sheets against her back and the firm touch of ten fingertips against the soft flesh of her thighs. She knew she had Quinn Fabray’s blond head between her legs, her pink tongue against her swollen clit, her slim fingers inside her cunt, pressing and twisting in ways that made Rachel cry into the pillow with pleasure. She knew it was happening, but there was no processing, no thinking.

There was only pleasure, waves of it, hot swipes of it low in her stomach.

There was only Quinn.

*

“I could love you.”

It was whispered in the dark, into the cool air, stale with the smell of sweat and female slickness, that cloying gentle smell Rachel only experienced in her own private moments before that night. It was whispered in a clear and sweet voice, sleepy but sane, and Rachel knew she heard correctly. Her heart didn’t hammer; if it beat any harder than it had when Quinn was inside of her, she’d die from it.

So she just reached out, only inches away, and wound her fingers around Quinn’s, squeezing her hand, falling asleep touching the only person who really knew her.

*

The room was still dark, and her watch on the night table read that it was three in the morning. The bed was empty, the room quiet, and Rachel didn’t have the courage to look up at the dresser for Quinn’s suitcase.

She pulled one of her old tricks from childhood—she sang softly to herself, old songs from her dad’s record player, ballads and love tunes. It always made her feel safe. It made her feel less alone.

She fell back to sleep with Quinn’s perfume still in her hair.

*

When Rachel woke up in the morning, she had a pleasant, unfamiliar soreness between her legs and a swollen love bite on her left shoulder. And across the room was Quinn Fabray, smoking a cigarette in the windowsill in nothing but a sheer floral-print robe.

“I thought you left last night,” Rachel said, wincing as she opened her eyes. 

Quinn waved a fresh pack of cigarettes in the air. “I had to go down to the grocery and buy more.” She took a puff and focused her gaze outside, looking over the morning milky paleness of the busy city. “Besides, it’s Saturday morning, I’ve nowhere else to be.” Her face was blank but serene; Rachel couldn’t read a single thought on her face.

Rachel leaned over the bed and grabbed her white stockings, which were balled up beneath her shoes, her pretty pink t-strap shoes with the gold chain accents, her good-girl shoes. “I should probably go.” It wasn’t like she wanted to leave the cool little room; she didn’t want to be away from Quinn. But she’d never done anything like that before, with anyone. _How am I supposed to act? What’s the proper procedure for a morning after a night like that?_

Quinn closed her eyes and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Suit yourself.”

Rachel paused, sitting at the edge of the bed, arms crossed over her naked breasts. There was nothing to blame their night on—there was a bottle of nice champagne on the night table but the glasses were clean and unused, set there before Rachel even arrived the night before, the room was neat and orderly with only their clothes crumpled on the floor. The hotel hadn’t seen a raucous party or wild, alcohol-fueled affair. It was just two women and a bed.

With a wonderful, fluttering feeling low in her stomach, Rachel realized that she’d kissed and touched a woman for the first time that night, with Quinn Fabray, bright and snappy and charming Quinn, and it was _amazing_.

“Quinn?” She asked softly, looking towards the window.

“If you’re going to make excuses, I’d rather not hear them.” Quinn stubbed out her cigarette, voice tired but not unkind. “Although lord knows I’m used to them.”

“Did you enjoy last night?” Rachel’s voice only trembled a little as she spoke.

Quinn looked over, eyebrows knit. “Beg pardon?”

“Last night. Was it…did you enjoy it?” Rachel repeated, and let her arms drop, baring her breasts to the cool morning chill of the room. The air conditioner hummed contentedly below the window, and goose-bumps broke out along her bare arms.

Quinn’s mouth opened a bit, and her eyes went glassy. “Yes, Rachel. I enjoyed it very much.” She stood up slowly, bare feet pressed to the carpet, and her silky robe fell open. Rachel drank in the sight of Quinn, bare to the room, no fancy dresses or makeup getting in the way of her perfect, moon-pale body. Her belly was smooth and white, hips delicately curved, a swath of dark hair between her legs. Her breasts were smaller than Rachel’s, the nipples pink and sweet, and Rachel’s mouth went dry as she allowed her eyes to linger on the slope of her inner thighs, where there was still a sticky sheen from the night before.

_I’ve touched this body. I’ve felt it against mine. God, how will I ever get over this? How can I move on and live without this?_

“Come here,” she commanded, surprising herself, and Quinn took her sweet time walking over, one dainty foot crossing over the other before she dropped smoothly into Rachel’s lap, knees on either side of Rachel’s hips. 

“The question is,” Quinn cooed, winding her arms around Rachel’s neck, pressing their breasts flush together, “did _you_ enjoy last night?” 

Rachel inhaled sharply as heat zinged through her body, and she brought a hand up to cup Quinn’s breast, nipple hard against the center of her palm. “It was the best night of my life.” A shiver racked her body as she felt moisture against her stomach; Quinn was already wet, wet and ready for Rachel’s fingers, for her mouth, for every dirty and delicious thing Rachel ever heard about, for _her_.

“Touch me, please,” Quinn gasped, arching her neck, inviting Rachel’s mouth. Rachel instantly pressed a kiss to the base of Quinn’s throat, keeping one hand on Quinn’s perfect breast while lowering the other hand to Quinn’s cunt. It was just as easy as doing it to herself, like she never had to learn how to do it—the pads of her fingers found Quinn’s swollen clit easily and pressed, giving her the perfect amount of sweet pressure, letting Quinn’s slick slide between her fingers.

The older girls at school and the girls from the theater all had little tricks when it came to sex and giving their own bodies pleasure, but Rachel recalled one tip especially—“sit on the bed with your knees open and just let your hand drop down. Don’t try to find it,” the girl said with a giggle, “it will find _you_ , trust me.” They all spoke of that little spot of pleasure, the one that would make you moan and thrash on the bed, the one that would make you see stars, and not only did Rachel find her own, she found Quinn’s just as easy, like she knew all along, like it was the most natural thing in the world to make another person feel that wonderful.

Quinn shivered on her lap, legs tightening around Rachel’s waist and fingers tangling in Rachel’s long hair. “Oh, yes, that…that’s wonderful, _perfect_.”

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Rachel was shocked at her own language, the way the word just came out, the way it sounded clicking out of her mouth. She wondered if Quinn would be offended, but instead, Quinn whined high in her throat and pressed her body impossibly closer to Rachel’s, their sweat sticking together.

“Yes, please, I need it…you know just what I need,” Quinn said, nearly sobbing with it.

In a hot, sudden flash, Rachel _wanted_ Quinn, she wanted to possess her, consume her, push her into the sheets and never let her go. She wanted the scents of their bodies to mix, their hair to tangle together, she wanted to know Quinn so deeply and so perfectly that there was nothing holding them apart. It was hard, angry, passionate, _animalistic_ , it was a feeling Rachel only ever had on stage right before the lights went on, right before she opened her mouth for the first note. It was something she strived for before with the boys and dates and backseat kisses, it was a feeling she had only ever had when everything was _perfect_. “I can give you what you need,” Rachel said breathlessly, her hair sticking to her neck. “I can make you feel good, I can.”

“Rachel, fuck me, _fuck_ me,” Quinn moaned, voice urgent and desperate, and Rachel slid her fingers past the slick folds of Quinn’s cunt and curved them into the hot core of her, the warmth and wet that felt like silk and iron at once around her skin. She pressed her face to Quinn’s sternum, between her breasts, and licked the salt of sweat away as Quinn moaned above her.

“I can make you feel good,” Rachel whispered into Quinn’s skin, and brought her other hand down and away from Quinn’s breast to press against her clit again, pressing and moving until Quinn shook with the pleasure and overstimulation. Rachel pressed with one hand and pumped with the other, in and out of Quinn’s cunt, an obscene and wonderful slick noise filling the room. 

“I…I need to,” Quinn was crying, tears sliding into Rachel’s hair, but her perfect pink mouth was wide open with pleasure, her head tilted back towards the ceiling like she was having a religious experience. “Make me _come_ , Rachel, I need…”

Rachel’s cunt throbbed, her clit swollen, but she wanted to wait, wanted to watch Quinn’s pleasure spread across her face, watch as she made a woman feel so good she cried. “I can make you come, Quinn. If I can do…anything for you,” she gasped, curving her fingers perfectly so Quinn’s body went bowstring taut, “I can make you come.”

Quinn went still, entire body clenched around Rachel—cunt around her fingers, legs around her waist, arms around her shoulders, hand in her hair. Rachel was her world, her core, and she came hard, with a dry, passionate cry that tore from her throat and peeled against the walls. She came again, still around Rachel’s fingers, and Rachel wanted to push her on the bed and press her tongue against Quinn’s clit, see how many times she could come, but she knew there would be time enough for that.

“I’ve got you,” Rachel said, voice shaking, still gasping into Quinn’s sticky skin. “There you go, I’ve got you.” She eased her fingers out of Quinn’s body and shivered at the chill of the room. She helped Quinn lie back on the mattress, pressing her slick-smeared fingers to Quinn’s hips, her back, her belly.

Quinn was completely boneless, panting and exhausted, as she lay back like a queen, hand thrown over her eyes. “My god…my god, Rachel, that was amazing.” Her legs lolled open and Rachel shivered when she saw the warm, red skin, covered in slick. “You’re perfect.”

Rachel exhaled deeply and pressed the heel of her hand to her own cunt, riding out her pleasure in the simple, easy way she had since she was a little girl and didn’t even know what that feeling meant. She knew Quinn would make her feel good later, again and again. After she came, once, quick and warm and good for a morning, she sat still on the bed for a bit. Quinn was still breathing heavily, hand over her eyes.

“Can you get me some water?” Quinn asked quietly.

Rachel grabbed a champagne glass from the night table and walked slowly to the bathroom, working out the sore muscles in her legs and back. Her fingers were still sticky from Quinn, and a dirty, secret part of her wanted to taste them, but it felt wrong. As she filled the glass, she looked up into the mirror, and gasped.

Her neck was covered in small red-purple love bites, the perfect shape of Quinn’s neat little mouth, and they trailed down between her breasts as well. Her mouth was swollen from kisses, lips chapped and puffy, her makeup was smeared all over her face, her hair was a bird’s nest, still littered with bobby pins.

And Quinn still wanted her.

She washed her hands reluctantly and walked back out into the room with Quinn’s water. Quinn was sitting up on the bed, against the headboard, the blanket from the bed wrapped around her small body. She smiled at Rachel, tired and weak. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Rachel said, and sat gingerly at the foot of the bed, feeling naked for the first time.

Quinn sipped her water, and patted her bare thigh gently. “Come here. Lie down.”

Rachel looked over reluctantly. “I should still probably go.”

“I think you should stay,” Quinn said bluntly, looking Rachel square in the eye. “You want to stay, I can tell. You just made love to me. You’re not leaving yet.”

Rachel swallowed thickly and felt an unmistakable tightening in her chest. “That was my first time. With…a woman. With _anyone_ , actually.”

“I know,” Quinn said softly without missing a beat. “I know, Rachel. It’s alright. Come and lie down.”

This time, Rachel listened, and pulled the sheet around her body before crawling up the bed and resting her cheek on Quinn’s thigh, legs curled up around her body. The early morning sunlight gleamed in through the windows, and Rachel knew the world was abuzz with chatter and work and business below them, but it was just her and Quinn in the hotel room. 

Quinn stroked Rachel’s hair away from her face, fingers soft and soothing. “We’re going to be fine. I know this is all new and frightening. It was for me, too. But you’re going to be fine.”

“You deserve better,” Rachel whispered into Quinn’s skin.

There was a beat of silence, filled with the distant honk of cabs and the click of the air conditioner starting up again, before Quinn said, “Nobody could be better to me than you.”

When Rachel began to cry, long and deep and full of unspoken emotion, Quinn just stroked her hair, made gentle shushing noises, and kept telling her everything was going to be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe how long it took me to finish this! I'm glad everyone liked the first chapter so much--you guys are amazing. Thanks for reading and commenting. <3

Rachel was raised in the Jewish faith. She was used to synagogue and explaining to her small-town friends how Hanukkah worked, and as a child, she loved her faith. She felt safe with it, but it changed when she grew older and saw more of the world. It was still a little bit of a shock to be sitting next to Quinn on the hard wood of a church pew late Sunday morning, especially right after committing what was certainly a sin in any religion the night before.

It was a religious experience in and of itself, just because the church was so beautiful. It was all sky-high ceilings and white marble, blue and red stained glass, and dark, glossy oak pews atop jewel-red carpet. For a Sunday morning service, the church wasn’t too full—most of the churchgoers were elderly couples or large families. There was a chill in the air and a slight musty smell, but when Rachel reached over and gently took Quinn’s gloved hand, she was instantly warm.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Quinn whispered, squeezing Rachel’s hand. She was a Grace Kelly vision in a cerulean blue linen dress and short white jacket with gold buttons. Her blue hat was made to perfectly match her dress, and her white leatherette ankle-strap shoes revealed several scuffs, as if she had gone to a million church services in them.

“Of course,” Rachel whispered back, voice still seeming too loud as the priest spoke serenely at the head of the church. 

Quinn’s eyes remained trained on the front, enraptured with the sermon, the planes of her face soft and sleepy. “I go every Sunday. I’ve never missed one, not ever, even after I left home.” Her voice barely a hush in the big, cold church.

Before the service, Rachel took a cab back to the boarding house, Quinn waiting in back as Rachel changed. Mrs. Pillsbury wasn’t too happy to see that Rachel spent the night away from her room, but seemed appeased when Rachel told her she was simply at a girlfriend’s. Rachel wore a black ruffle-sleeved blouse, a long gray skirt with a black belt, and short white socks with simple black flats. She had time to wash her hair and face in Quinn’s hotel room to avoid any suspicion, but her eyes were still a bit puffy.

There was still a knot in her stomach, settled deep in there, waiting to erupt. Rachel knew she could never take back what she and Quinn did in that hotel room—but the thing that gnawed at her the most was how she didn’t _want_ to take it back. Every kiss, every touch—it wasn’t something she wanted to forget.

And although the newness and brightness of her relationship with Quinn frightened her, she was not ashamed of it. After Rachel cried, she fell asleep in Quinn’s lap and woke an hour later to Quinn still brushing her hair back.

When she asked Rachel if she’d like to accompany her to Mass on Fifth Avenue, Rachel didn’t hesitate before accepting.

She wasn’t lying to herself when she said she’d follow Quinn anywhere.

Rachel wasn’t paying much attention to the priest—the words were familiar enough; he spoke of forgiveness and kindness, of helping those in need. But Rachel only had eyes for beautiful Quinn sitting like a white-and-blue angel on the pew, one gloved hand folded over her hymnal and one cupped gently in Rachel’s palm, ankles crossed.

When Quinn stood to take communion, Rachel remained in the pew, palms sweating in her gloves and she held her pocketbook in her lap. Quinn glanced back at Rachel and gave her a smile, a softly reassuring close-lipped smile that plainly said _everything is perfect_.

In that cold Manhattan church on a Sunday morning, Rachel fell head over heels in love with Quinn Fabray.

*

For the next three weeks after that weekend, Rachel’s life really was perfect.

She finally got a part after a long dry spell—second female lead, in fact, not quite at the top but a big part nonetheless in a family drama. The venue was a small playhouse in Brooklyn, not very chic or well-known, but Kitty Wilde did a small play there before she was in the pictures, so the venue had generated a bit of buzz. She was playing the eldest daughter of a dysfunctional patriarchal family with an alcoholic father, a hypochondriac mother, and most surprisingly, a secretly homosexual son, which was sure to cause some controversy, even after _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_. Rachel’s character was mostly comedic—she was young and a little awkward with big movie-star dreams, although her character was a _terrible_ actress. It spelled long days for Rachel—mornings and early afternoons at the office and evenings on stage, going through lines and directions, making friends with the performers. 

Quinn was doing some publicity in New York for the Abrams film, mostly interviews and a few small photo-shoots. She was also seeing a new screenwriter named Mike Chang, who her pretty assistant Brittany used to dance with, about his new film to be set in New York City. Movies weren’t too often made in the city, but Mr. Chang was adamant about the location, and Quinn was immediately drawn to it. She hadn’t yet cemented an agreement for a part, but she was still getting paid for _A Man’s World_ and publicity, so she could take a break and live comfortably.

Rachel saw Quinn every single day without fail—they did not attempt any weekday overnight stays, since Rachel’s office was too far away from the Algonquin and Miss Pillsbury was bound to become suspicious. But they met for lunch and dinner, got drinks at patio cafes and hotel bars between work and auditions and rehearsals. They took long walks in the park, the summer sun giving them pink backs and cheeks when they shed their cardigans and sunhats.

Evenings were reserved for dancing, dinners, and more drinks—they went back to Nyada a few times to dance with Brittany, Blaine, and Sam, but Quinn also took her to fancier parties—ones with producers and directors, with actors and actresses. Rachel was a little star-struck at times, but the only star she had real eyes for was Quinn.

They spent one mid-August night in the courtyard of another hotel, where Quinn had been invited to a wrap party. The yard held a grand grey-lilac fountain, overflowing with lily-pads and ivy, circled in flowering shrubs and twinkling strands of lights. A trellis hung over a small, outdoor parquet dance-floor, deemed to humid for the rest of the partygoers, but Quinn and Rachel slow-danced for hours, wrapped in each other’s arms.

“This is nice,” Quinn murmured into Rachel’s bare shoulder. “I never used to like these parties before you. I always felt like a phony.”

“Why is that?” Rachel’s voice was just as tired and druggy, body loose and languid against Quinn’s.

“I liked the drinks and the nice dresses, but I never had fun with my dates. They kept me at an arm’s length until we got into the cab, then their hands would be up my skirt.” She pressed a kiss to Rachel’s shoulder; Rachel shuddered. “They never asked me about my films or about anything at all, really.”

They heard a few partygoers drunkenly stumble through the shrubbery, and they instinctively pulled apart a bit, just swaying in each other’s loose embrace. “I want to know everything about you,” Rachel said, looking Quinn in the eye. They both were seeing everything bathed in blue, the world was good and clear when it was just Quinn and Rachel dancing under the trellis.

“Then you shall,” Quinn said, giggling a little, like she couldn’t contain her happiness. She swooped in and planted a gentle kiss on Rachel’s lips, too quick to cause scandal even if someone saw. To the outside world, they were just bosom friends. Nobody (besides Kurt and Quinn’s _alternative_ friends, as she called them) knew what was really going on.

They spent the next hour dancing slowly to the muffled music coming from the ballroom—smooth jazz, all the rage in the city. Quinn spoke about her childhood, about growing up in a strict household, how she was asked to leave home as a teenager after a mistake she didn’t elaborate on just yet. She described the sour-fresh smell of the small farms, the local deli that always gave her mother a discount, the small high school where she won Homecoming Queen two years in a row. 

In turn, Rachel told Quinn about Kurt and his wonderful father who always clapped her on the back and asked her how her day was when she visited after school. She told her about the high school plays, the part-time job at the stationary store, the way she got her period when she was ten years old and thought she was dying. The little things that didn’t really matter but somehow mattered the most.

They stayed away from the sadness, the secrets, the darkness that came from being who they were. And they just danced beneath the map of stars, wrapped in each other’s sweat-sticky arms, happy as they could ever possibly be.

On the cab ride home, Quinn glanced towards the front seat. When she saw that the driver was occupied with a baseball play-by-play on the radio, she took Rachel’s hand and guided it beneath the stiff skirt of her cream and china-blue lace dress.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “ _Quinn_ , you’re such a brat…we can’t do this here!” She kept her voice to a low, aroused hiss.

Quinn giggled. “Why not? We’re just friends, aren’t we?” It was a joke, but there was a tiny twinge of sadness in her voice, sadness that Rachel felt deep in her gut whenever she wanted to hold Quinn’s hand on the sidewalk.

Rachel swallowed and slid her hand up higher, smoothing the creamy skin of Quinn’s thighs, and pressed two fingers against the cotton of Quinn’s underwear. Quinn’s breath hitched, but she kept her eyes focused on the swirling, speedy silver lights of New York City at nighttime. 

“What are friends for?” Rachel asked cheekily, her own underwear getting damp and she pushed away the fabric of Quinn’s panties and thumbed her clit.

Quinn let out a breathless laugh and squirmed in her seat, and the cab driver turned up the radio.

*

On a Tuesday afternoon, Quinn took Rachel out for soup and sandwiches in a small, casual diner, and Rachel experienced for the first time what it was like being so close to an up-and-coming film actress.

“Mr. Chang gave me a call yesterday and had some questions about the film,” Quinn said, taking a giant bite of her unladylike, dripping Reuben sandwich. “All sorts of strange requests. He asked if I’d be willing to gain weight, lose weight, dye my hair, shave my head…I told him I’d do whatever it takes to be in the film.”

Rachel smiled. She loved Quinn’s ambition, her devotion to her career. “I’m not sure I can envision you as bald and plump, I’m afraid.”

Quinn giggled. “If I keep devouring this delicious sandwich in this manner, it may soon be reality.”

Rachel leaned over and dabbed a napkin on the corner of Quinn’s mouth. “Eat your sandwich, you deserve it. Working so hard, running around all the time.”

Quinn brushed her knuckles against Rachel’s fingers, a silent _thank you_. “Oh, you know I’m just fine. Now tell me about your play, I want to know how rehearsals are going.”

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, a teenage girl in a pale green skirt and white school blouse cautiously approached the table, a crumpled _New Directions_ magazine in her hands.

“Um, hello…I’m so sorry to interrupt. But are you…” the girl said to Quinn, cheeks pink, “Are you Quinn Fabray? From _Sweetie Pie_?”  
Quinn laughed a little and smiled at the girl, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Goodness, I didn’t think anyone even saw that film! I was so young!”

The girl smiled and bounced a little in her saddle shoes, obviously excited to meet a movie star. She looked back at a booth across the diner, where three more teenage girls with curled bobs and schoolbooks sat whispering together. “My girlfriends and I love that film, we went to go see it before we started high school. It was a wonderful time. And we’ve seen all of your movies since!” She smoothed a page of her magazine out, revealing the photograph of Quinn that Rachel chose for the article. “Would you mind signing this for me?”

Quinn took the magazine with a small, secret smile. Rachel suppressed a giggle in her napkin, letting Quinn have her moment. “I would love to, sweetheart. What is your name, now?”

“Marilyn.”

“After a beautiful blond, just like us,” Quinn said, scribbling out an autograph right over her bare arm in the photograph. “There you go, Marilyn.”

Marilyn’s cheeks turned pink and she gasped out a thank you before scampering back to her booth, where she and her friends squealed privately in their little teenage-girl cocoon of lipstick and very few worries. 

Rachel raised her eyebrows at Quinn, but Quinn just kept smiling, looking down at her sandwich. “Oh, stop being demure, you _love_ it,” Rachel teased. 

Quinn laughed and hid her red face in her hands. “This is so embarrassing, I swear that has _never_ happened before.”

Rachel gave her a playful kick beneath the table before rubbing Quinn’s calf with her ankle. “Goodness, Quinn, you’re such a silly goose. Be proud, people are starting to recognize you! I think you made that girl’s week.” Rachel felt a small twinge of jealousy in her chest, but her pride for Quinn’s success was deeper.

Quinn straightened her back and sighed, a newfound confidence washing over her fresh face. “I suppose I should get used to this. The paparazzi will be swamping me in the streets in no time.”

Rachel laughed. “Well, I’ll be sure to hit them with my pocketbook a few times to show them who’s boss.”

“That’s my girl,” Quinn cooed.

*

When Rachel came home one evening after dinner with Quinn, her feet sore and her back aching from rehearsal earlier, she was greeted by a radiant Miss Pillsbury and an excited, bubbly-looking Tina Cohen-Chang, one of the girls who lived in the boarding house.

At first, Rachel was frazzled—she liked to slip in unannounced, as if someone may smell a trace of Quinn’s perfume on her clothes or see a smudge of pink lipstick on her chin. But then Tina sat up, a blinding smile crinkling her face attractively, and thrust out her hand. 

“Oh, Rachel, I’m so happy you’re home, I’ve got wonderful news! I’m an engaged woman!” She fluttered her hand about and Rachel gasped at the size of the diamond on Tina’s finger.

“Tina, what wonderful news! I had no idea you were so attached!” She examined the ring—it really was a beautiful piece. Tina’s beau must’ve had a decent-sized paycheck.

“It was a quick courtship. We just couldn’t stand being apart any longer.”

“Since Tina’s parents live out of state, the young man came to _me_ to ask permission,” Miss Pillsbury tittered, voice high and excited. “Such a gentleman!”

“When’s the big day?” Rachel sat down on the sofa. It was clear she couldn’t make a hasty escape to her room.

“We set it for the late winter, when the buds are just coming out,” Tina said, her face a vision of ecstasy. “Then we’re moving to Boston.”

Rachel smiled, and she was happy, she really was. She’d never known Tina well but she was a charming girl and Rachel was excited for her. But her smile didn’t reach her eyes—instead, it sent her stomach churning again. Tina was going to be a married woman—a woman with a house, a car, children, a washing machine, a nice yard with a picket fence. She was going to become the sort of woman all women were expected to be, and she’d be breathlessly happy.

It was in Rachel’s nature to be jealous—she always wanted to be the best. But it wasn’t usually in her nature to be bitter about the hardships of life.

*

“Do you ever wonder?” Rachel asked, lying flat on her back in Quinn’s hotel bed, the sheets mussed and warm around her naked body. It was midday and boiling hot outside, and after the air conditioner broke at the office earlier that morning, Schue sent everyone home. Rachel immediately called Quinn’s room from a pay phone, and they had barely kept their hands off each other for the past several hours.

Quinn leaned up on her elbow, hair wild and fluffed to one side, covering her eye. She traced lazy, ticklish circles around Rachel’s belly button, and Rachel laughed and squirmed. “Do I wonder about what?”

“About what it would be like. With a man.”

Quinn’s circling paused for just a breath before she picked it up again. “Oh, Rachel darling, I’ve been with a man before. Let me tell you, it is nothing to fuss about.”

Rachel laughed—she had no idea if Quinn had ever been with a man in the biblical sense, but that didn’t matter either way, and that wasn’t what she meant. “No, I mean _with_ a man. Like, a married woman, with no worries about how her relationship would look to everyone else.”

Quinn flopped onto her back, small breasts bouncing as she settled, and Rachel had to look out the window to stop herself from leaning up on her elbows over Quinn and pressing her mouth against Quinn’s breasts. “Of course I think about it. Don’t all women like us think about it?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never met a…a woman like us. Besides, well, _us_ of course.”

Quinn looked over, eyes wide. “You’re kidding. Never?”

Rachel blushed. “Well, you know how it is. Growing up in a small town. People would gossip. There was already some gossip about a couple of old women who’d lived together for many years downtown, and the other women never invited them to bridge or cocktail parties. And that was just gossip!”

Quinn rolled over to press up against Rachel, practically begging with the soft pale lines of her body. “But what about here in the city? Haven’t you looked around, for bars and such?”

Rachel pressed her neck into Quinn’s collarbone, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Heavens, no! I wouldn’t even know where to start looking! And besides, I’d be too shy.”

Quinn kissed Rachel’s forehead. “Miss Rachel Berry, being shy. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Hush,” Rachel muttered into Quinn’s skin, but it was without heat.

“Say,” Quinn said, sitting up against the headboard. Rachel followed her. “I have a good friend, Santana Lopez. She’s rich as all get out, a society woman, and she has…tastes aligned with our own, so to speak. She’s throwing a party next week. Will you come?”

Rachel bit her lip—it sent a nervous shiver through her stomach, the thought of going to a party where people , _knew_ and didn’t even mind, where she would see other women who loved the way she loved, but she couldn’t ignore her excitement. 

“Why not? It’s about time I start seeing how the other side lives.”

Quinn giggled, sweet as a brass bell, and pressed Rachel into the sheets with a kiss.

*

On the Sunday before Santana’s party, Rachel took a day with Miss Pillsbury, Mercedes, Tina, and Kurt and went to the city for brunch. It wasn’t an elegant or stuffy affair, no linen tablecloths or fine champagne, but it was a nice, family-owned diner with heaping bowls of eggs and pancakes piled on the table and endless glasses of ice cold milk. It was mainly open for the after-church crowd, but it was one of the only places Miss Pillsbury liked because she’d eaten there as a child and deemed it “clean as a pin.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Kurt said sweetly to Miss Pillsbury from across the table, folding a napkin over his lap. “Lord knows I have nothing else to do on a Sunday.”

Miss Pillsbury pretended to be affronted at Kurt’s use of the lord’s name in vain, most of all on a Sunday, but Rachel knew it was all for show. She wondered how Quinn would take it—she’d probably give Kurt a wicked smile and say something like “God hears everything, Mr. Hummel—even the naughty bits.” Rachel smiled into her glass of milk and wondered when she could introduce Kurt to Quinn. It wasn’t as if Kurt didn’t know about their relationship—they had many, _many_ hushed parlor talks about Rachel’s experiences while Miss Pillsbury vacuumed upstairs.

“I love going out with my girls,” Miss Pillsbury said kindly. “Even though I’m sad Tina couldn’t come and bring her new fiancé with her.”

“I always knew Tina would be the first of us to get married,” Mercedes said, with a little bit of bite. “I don’t know what it is about that girl, but she’s got a way with the gentlemen.”

“Tina? I would’ve never guessed,” Rachel said honestly. She always thought Tina a bit awkward.

Mercedes leaned in a little, smile mischievous. “I heard she’s had at least a dozen engagement rings and ran off with all of them.”

“Mercedes Jones, that is _gossip_ and I will not have it at this meal!” Miss Pillsbury angrily speared a pancake with her fork and glanced up at Mercedes. “A dozen, really?”

Everyone laughed, and as glasses were refilled and Rachel dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, she heard the gentle sound of a throat clearing behind her. When she turned around, there was Quinn in a neat purple and white Swiss-dotted Sunday dress, the same scuffed shoes as before on her feet. A small white hat with a bunch of pansies adorned her silky hair.

“Quinn, what a surprise!” Rachel stood up, a little too quickly. Her cup skittered a little across her saucer, sloshing hot coffee onto her plate.

Quinn smiled shyly. “Miss Berry, hello. I hope I’m not interrupting?” She glanced at a politely attentive Miss Pillsbury and a starry-eyed Kurt.

It stung a little to hear her formal name—they weren’t mere acquaintances, for crying out loud. “Of course not,” she said, giving Quinn a stiff little hug. An invitation to join them was on the tip of her tongue, but before she could get it out, she realized that they simply weren’t prepared—they knew each other so well that her landlady and friends could tell they were intimate, yet that hadn’t prepared false answers to common questions. 

But Quinn wasn’t fazed. She nodded to Rachel’s party. “Hello, pleased to meet you.”

Rachel shook herself out of her daze and turned to the table. “Yes, of course, this is my…friend, Miss Quinn Fabray. Quinn, this is my landlady, Miss Pillsbury, and my friends Kurt and Mercedes.”

“Oh, I’ve spoken to you on the phone, Quinn! Come, sit with us,” Miss Pillsbury said, patting the empty chair next to her. Kurt shot Rachel a delighted grin, like he wanted nothing more than to brunch with Rachel’s movie-star lover.

Quinn shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m just on my way out. My mother and father are waiting outside.”

A cool shock went down Rachel’s spine, and she looked Quinn in the eye, searching for an explanation. Quinn hadn’t spoken to her parents since she left home, and she hadn’t told Rachel they were due for a visit—was she fibbing to get out of brunch? But when Rachel looked towards the lobby of the diner, she saw two older folks—a well-dressed, blond man and woman standing outside the glass doors on the sidewalk.

Rachel also noticed a tired look in Quinn’s eyes, a drawn sadness that she’d never seen before. Quinn was a subdued person, she played her cards close to her chest—but rather than storm clouds in her eyes, she always seemed to have blue skies, a promise of a better tomorrow even when the day was long. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Rachel whispered, voice barely a hush as she leaned into Quinn like they were giving each other a peck goodbye.

“I’ll be just fine. Ring you tomorrow?” Quinn squeezed Rachel’s forearm, but it gave her little comfort. When Quinn left, Rachel sat back down, but her appetite had fled. 

“What a lovely girl,” Miss Pillsbury said, watching as Quinn left. “She looks awfully familiar.” 

“She’s in the movies,” Mercedes said. “She’s the next big thing.”

*

Quinn called the afternoon before Santana Lopez’s party and sent Rachel a card with the address. “I’m afraid I have to go early, I have a little business with Santana. She’s a film producer, quite popular in the business, and she knows Mr. Chang.”

“Would you like me to come with?” Rachel was still picking out which dress to wear that night; she had no idea how the _other_ side of the city dressed or acted or spoke. It made her nervous. 

“No, no,” Quinn said airily, like she was distracted. “I’ll send Brittany to fetch you. I want you to bring your friends, the ones from brunch.”

“Kurt and Mercedes?” Rachel swallowed heavily. She didn’t quite know how she felt about that idea…Kurt would be elated, of course, seeing as he and Rachel had much in common. But Mercedes was under the impression that Rachel was simply an unattached career girl who had no time for a boyfriend—not an attached career girl who preferred beautiful women.

“Yes, I think it would be fun. Santana is a character, people flock around her. I promise it’ll be just fine. It’s just a party.”

Rachel took a deep breath. “I suppose we could all use a night out. I’ll call them.”

*

From the way Quinn described Santana Lopez’ lifestyle and fine home, Rachel guessed Santana was an old society matron who had too much money and friends to not have parties every single night. She imagined a tall, craggy-faced woman in a mink stole and hair wrap and too much powder, trying to keep up with the younger crowd.

Instead, she was greeted at the door by one of the most stunningly beautiful young women she’d ever seen. She had a heart-shaped brown face with a silky fall of dark hair, and her lips were colored with the brightest red lipstick. “Now who invited you beautiful gals—“ she eyed Kurt in his satin jacket, “and this handsome gentleman to my party?”

“Quinn Fabray,” Brittany said cheerfully, bouncing a little in her frilly pink dress.

“Well aren’t you just a delight?” Santana purred, looking Brittany up and down like she was a frosted cupcake ready to eat. 

Rachel pulled the scrap of paper with the address out of her small black leatherette purse and handed it to Santana. “Miss Fabray gave this to Brittany. She’s her assistant.”

Santana’s eyes brightened when she took the paper. She tucked it into her brassiere, much to Rachel’s embarrassment. “Okay, let me see here. Quinn told me all about you all. Brown eyes, silver shoes, and a _fine_ décolletage—you must be Mercedes,” Santana said pointing a manicured pinkie finger in Mercedes’ direction. “Tall, thin as a pin, and blond like Marilyn—this is Brittany.” She scanned Rachel up and down, one eyebrow raised. “A sensible dress, big hands, and Babs’ nose—Rachel Berry, in the flesh.”

Rachel blushed a little, but relaxed when Santana smiled and said, “You’re even more beautiful than my Quinn said you were. And who is this fine thing? You look like you stepped right off the runway.” She smiled at Kurt, a sparkle in her eye, and Rachel instantly knew that Kurt and this woman would be bitter rivals and wonderful friends. 

“This is my friend Kurt. I hope we are not intruding?”

Santana laughed with her whole body, loose and carefree. “Far from it, Miss Berry. This party is short on men. Come in, come in, let’s get you all drinks.”

“She’s dressed like a mob man,” Mercedes whispered when Santana bustled ahead of them, but it wasn’t judgmental. She was simply making an observation, and Rachel thought she sounded a bit impressed. It was true—Santana wore a coal-black suit, tightly tailored to her body (unlike a man’s suit) and a bright red tie with a clean, pressed linen shirt. She also wore saddle shoes like the kind Rachel wore as a schoolgirl, and a black men’s hat over her silky dark hair. 

Although Santana dressed like one of the gangster men Rachel read about in the papers, she was undeniably female in the way she moved, spoke, and flirted. She also wore a diamond tennis bracelet on her slim wrist that glinted in the light when she waved to a guest—an obvious gift from a lover.

“This is quite the scene,” Mercedes said nervously, glancing around the party. She hadn’t been to any of the ritzy parties Rachel and Brittany had attended with Quinn—she was used to cocktails and appetizers in someone’s living room on a Friday night.

But really, she had a point—it was unlike anything Rachel had seen before. She felt like a little girl in her high-collared wine red dress and polished black heels, hair coiled in an updo at the back of her head. And why did she wear pearls? She never seemed to get the dress code down for Quinn’s parties. She cursed herself as she looked around at the fabulous people dancing, mingling, and drinking around her. There were women dancing with men, women dancing with women, and men dancing with men. Some of the women wore slinky dresses and furs, others wore suits like Santana. The men were dressed in bright linen summer clothes, smoking and laughing together, and most of them were drunk.

But it was mostly women.

Santana appeared in front of them again, this time with a curvy girl with honey-blond hair holding her hand. “This is my girl Dani. Dani, this is Quinn’s girl Rachel, and her lovely friends Brittany, Mercedes, and Kurt.”

Rachel felt a cool sweat break out at the small of her back. “Oh no, I’m not…I’m not Quinn’s, um, girl.” She cleared her throat. “We’re only friends.”

Much to Rachel’s surprise, Santana tilted her head back and laughed, much more freely and openly than Rachel had ever seen a woman laugh. “Oh, you’re sweet. There are no secrets here, darling, you can be frank with us.”

“What is she talking about?” Mercedes asked, giving Rachel a quizzical look.

“I don’t…” Rachel stammered, feeling like a spotlight was glaring on her in the worst way. _Oh my god, does everyone know? Do they think I’m…?_ She felt dizzy with emotion when she heard a clear, sweet voice yell out, “Rachel, is that you?”

Rachel whipped her head around, and her heart practically halted in her chest. Quinn stood at the top of Santana’s grand gilt staircase, hand rested on the solid oak banister. She was a vision in a short, shimmering, blushing rose-red dress, her legs and smooth white collarbone bare. A dab of sweat shined on her clavicle and dipped between her small breasts, and Rachel felt warm all over. As she descended the staircase, Quinn shed her plush leopard-fur coat and dropped it right into the steps as if it was a used tissue.  
Her feet were bare and her hair was a messy, golden halo around her head, eyes smoky and dark. Once she stumbled down the last step, she leaned in and wrapped Rachel in a damp, perfumed hug. “I’m so glad you could make it.” Without thinking, Rachel returned the hug, letting the folds of Quinn’s silky dress fall between her fingers. 

“Of course, thank you for inviting all us. Quinn, perhaps we could speak privately, I…” Before Rachel could pull Quinn away, Quinn stepped aside, swaying delicately against the rhythm of the band’s jazz.

“Oh, you must be Rachel’s friends!” She squeezed Mercedes and then Kurt into the same type of embrace she gave Rachel, and Rachel’s stomach dropped a little. “I’m Quinn, I’m in the movies. Have you seen me?” Quinn’s words slurred together, and Rachel knew she’d started drinking much earlier than Santana had been serving.

Mercedes nodded politely. “Of course, Miss Fabray, we met at brunch the other day.”

Quinn frowned, pretty face twisted in confusion. She suddenly broke out in a smile, leaning heavily against Rachel’s side. “Oh, of course, I’m such a silly twit. You know how it is.” She wrapped a thin arm around Rachel’s waist and whispered, “You like lovely tonight.”

Rachel blushed, wrapping her arm around Quinn to keep her upright. “Thank you. Quinn, I really think we should go rest for a bit…”

“Oh, Santana! Santana, dearest, have you met Brittany yet? I think you two would make the handsomest couple.” She grabbed Brittany’s arm and pushed her towards Santana. 

“I _have_ met Beautiful Brittany,” Santana said, offering Brittany her arm. “But I’m afraid I’m spoken for.”

“I like your hat,” Brittany said, plucking Santana’s fedora off her head and pressing it over her own blond curls. “How do I look?”

Santana looked at Brittany like she was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen. “Perfect. Like a perfect lady.”

Brittany grinned and Dani cleared her throat a little, eyeing Santana. “Why don’t we escort our guests to the bar?”

Santana nodded, although her gaze was still trained on Brittany. “Of course. We have a few gentleman you all might know, Blaine and Sam. I practically had to _beg_ them to come, but they’re helpless when good music is playing.”

Rachel turned to Kurt. “Oh, you’ll like Blaine, he’s so sweet.”

Kurt smiled and opened his mouth to inquire further, but Quinn grabbed Rachel’s arm and pulled her towards the stairs. “If you want to talk. I have the perfect room.”

Rachel looked at Kurt, but he just nodded encouragingly. “We’ll be fine. I’ll keep an eye on Mercedes.” 

Quinn began tripping up the stairs, stumbling over her coat. Rachel picked it up and folded it over her arm. “I’m a little tipsy, you’ll have to forgive me. Goodness, do you have any cigarettes? I’m just _dying_ for one right now.”

Rachel dug around in the pocket of Quinn’s coat and pulled out a pack and a silver lighter. “I’ll light you one when we get upstairs. Slow down, don’t hurt yourself.”

Quinn led Rachel into a pale pink bedroom, fully furnished by sparse. It was obviously a guest room. There was already a couple on the bed, half-dressed, the man taking pictures of the woman as she sprawled on the sheets. There was also a man with a drink in hand standing by the mantle of the pink marble fireplace, examining the clock.

“Oh, excuse us,” Rachel said, backing out of the room with Quinn in tow, but Quinn just grinned mischievously and tugged her back in, closing the door.

“Don’t worry about them. They’ve been here all day, they don’t mind.” Quinn collapsed into a soft peach chaise lounge, the left strap of her dress slipping off her shoulder. “Light me that cigarette, won’t you, sweetheart?”

Rachel handed Quinn a cigarette, glancing about the room. It smelled strongly of alcohol, and the man standing by the mantel swayed on his feet. There were three martini glasses scattered on the shag rug next to the bed and several green beer bottles stacked here and there on the furniture. “Have _you_ been in here all day?”

Quinn waved her hand, a dismissive gesture Rachel wasn’t so fond of. “I’ve been at Santana’s, yes. She takes my mind off things.”

Rachel knelt in front of Quinn and slid an ashtray onto the arm of the chaise so Quinn wouldn’t burn the fabric. She gently tucked Quinn’s dress strap back over her shoulder. “What sorts of things? You can talk to _me_ , you know.”

Quinn cupped Rachel’s chin and gave her a dazed, boozy, sweet look. “I know. I know, and I love you much for it. But I just…I like myself when I’m with you. I have to be a different person when I have issues with…”

Rachel took Quinn’s hand. “Your parents?”

Quinn nodded, avoiding Rachel’s gaze. She held out her hand. “Come here."

Rachel obeyed, sinking into Quinn, but her stomach sank as well.

*

“That was so much fun! You have such interesting friends,” Mercedes said with a yawn in the cab on the way home.

Rachel smiled stiffly, hoping Santana was taking good care of Quinn. “Yes, I do, don’t I?”

*

“Rachel, you have a visitor,” said Lauren, one of the other actresses in the play, from the wings of the stage. She looked a little shaken. “I don’t think she’s feeling so well.”

The director called for a break and everyone drifted backstage—the mood was always light and playful, and everyone got along, but Rachel was embarrassed that they called cut for her. She grabbed a towel and patted her stage makeup away, making her way back to the cramped dressing room.

“Rachel, I was hoping this was your mirror…when I saw the red hair ribbon, I knew it was you!” Quinn sat in the hard plastic chair with her legs crossed, her skirt riding up on her thighs. 

Rachel was happy to see her, of course, but it was strange after not speaking for a few days, and so out-of-the-blue. “Quinn, when did you get here?”

Quinn pouted and looked up. “Goodness, what sort of greeting is that?” She stood up, swaying a little on her high heels. “Come give me a kiss!”

Rachel remained standing awkwardly in front of the mirror. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. The rest of the cast may come in.”

Quinn waved away Rachel’s objections and looked around the dressing room. “I remember when I used to dress for shows in little closets like this. I shudder to think.”

Her comment stung Rachel a little. “Quinn, are you feeling alright?”

“Just fine, just fine,” Quinn said, smoothing her hands over the brilliant blood-orange fabric of her dress. “I’ve had a very long week, and I just wanted to come see my favorite girl. How’s the play going? Are the other actors nice to you?”

Rachel couldn’t help but smile a little; Quinn sounded like a concerned mother. “Everything is fine, Quinn. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll go get you some water, okay?”

Quinn waved her hands like she was brushing away Rachel’s concern, but she remained seated and only swayed a little in her chair. Rachel fetched a glass of water from the pitcher on one of the girls’ tables and gave it to Quinn. “Thank you, dear,” Quinn said, but her speech was slow and choppy, and a harsh smell wafted on her breath.

Rachel stood back and folded her arms over her chest. She felt like a child, dressed in her rehearsal clothes—blue jeans and a plaid button-up shirt, like some sort of farmer’s daughter. “Quinn, have you been drinking?” She didn’t care either way if Quinn drank now and then, but drinking and then showing up at the theater could get Rachel in trouble.

Quinn frowned and crossed her own arms over the front of her dress, mimicking Rachel’s pose. “Maybe I have. Either way, it shouldn’t concern you.”

A few of the cast members filtered into the room and Rachel hoped they wouldn’t recognize Quinn—she had no idea why Quinn would put on a straight face for fans. But they were too busy teasing each other and changing, and they gave Rachel and her companion little notice. “It does concern me,” Rachel said softly, leaning in towards Quinn. “You seem out of sorts lately, what in the world is going on?” Rachel figured it had something to do with Quinn’s parents, but it was hard to tell when Quinn didn’t call.

Quinn ran a hand through her hair—it looked a little oily, like she was due for a shower. “You’re right. I was silly to come, what am I even doing here…” she stood up and grabbed her purse off Rachel’s mirrored table, scattering Rachel’s cosmetics on the floor. “ _Damn_ it,” Quinn swore, and a few of the cast members glanced over. Quinn got on her knees to pick up tubes of lipstick and cases of powder.

Rachel bent down and placed a soothing hand on Quinn’s back between her shoulder blades. “Quinn,” she whispered. Quinn kept scrambling to pick things off the floor. “ _Quinn_ , stop. Look at me.”

Quinn finally looked up, her blue eyes filled with tears. Her makeup was streaking and her mouth was set in a grim line; Rachel had never seen such rawness on Quinn’s face before, such bare emotion. “I’m so sorry, Rachel. I’m a mess. I’m messing everything up.”

“Quinn, it’s alright…just talk to me. Tell me how I can help.” Rachel went to take Quinn’s hand, but Quinn stood up quickly, stumbling a little. 

“I’ll call you soon, I promise. Have a good rehearsal.” She was out of the door before Rachel could even say goodbye.

*

The next Saturday, Rachel walked around town, going block to block until she could find a second-run theater that was playing _That Girl_ , Quinn’s romantic film from the season before.

She still hadn’t spoken to Quinn since the incident at the playhouse, but it had only been a few days, and Rachel wanted Quinn to be able to figure things out on her own without Rachel nosing into her business. Rachel had the habit of worrying too much about the people she loved—and she knew she loved Quinn, there was no question anymore. She loved Quinn desperately; it was the only way she knew how to love.

But Rachel was still trying to understand her.

“One for the Quinn Fabray movie, please,” Rachel asked politely at the box office, purse clutched in front of her. 

The ticket seller raised his eyebrows. “We’re pulling this one tomorrow. Hasn’t been very popular. Not with the adult crowd, anyway.”

Rachel took her ticket and offered him a thin-lipped smile. “She’s a friend.”

The seller didn’t look impressed. “Heard it’s a tearjerker. Enjoy the film, miss.”

Rachel settled into the back of the theatre. She’d never been to that venue before; it was small and old but well-furnished with dark red cushioned seats and a small balcony where the young teenage couples always sat. The floors were sticky and littered with empty soda bottles and crumpled white-and-red popcorn sacks, and the advertisement reel seemed dated and grainy. Only two other people were in the theatre—a couple, shy and quiet, holding each other’s hands primly in the first row.

Rachel settled into her seat, pulling the hem of her skirt away from the chewing gum on the floor. As soon as the lights dimmed, Rachel drifted into the movie-watching haze, the sort of feeling that made her feel safe and comforted, soft and a little sleepy. There was something about being able to sit back and watch a lifetime play out in front of her; there was no sweeter a feeling.

Rachel startled the moment Quinn’s body filled the screen. She was in the first frame of the film, not a close-up, but a long shot of her walking down a California boardwalk, her puff of blond hair practically white against the Technicolor blue ocean and her prim pink dress blooming like a carnation. As she strode closer to the audience, the parts of Quinn Rachel knew best appeared—the smooth swing of her hips, her peaceful half-smile, the gentle slope of her neck.

It wasn’t a great film, but Rachel understood the appeal. Girl meets boy at the beach, boy moves away at the end of summer, girl gets a job in the city, boy reconnects with her, girl falls in love, boy says he has to leave again and breaks girl’s heart. Rachel only paid half-attention to the plot; she kept her face trained on Quinn.

It was strange seeing Quinn onscreen. Rachel expected her to be vibrant, bursting and over-the-top with energy, ripping at the seams with flair. But Quinn was much the same onscreen as she was in person—smooth-faced, candid, elegant, and mysterious all at once. She was brimming over with _something_ —not glamour or Hollywood glitz, but the very essence of a hard-won life, a life she was proud to show through her characters.

The ending was nothing special. The boy is on his airplane ready to go when he sees Quinn’s character in the tarmac, her yellow dress billowing in the wind and her hat flying away from her hair, waving to him like a shipwrecked sailor waving to land. He cannot bear leaving her and gets off the plane—the second he hits the ground, Quinn is in his arms, receiving his love and kisses, basking in his adoration.

Rachel cried quietly into her handkerchief, soaking it right through, but it wasn’t out of sadness or grief. She loved Quinn. Desperately, fearfully.

And Quinn really _was_ a shining star with a dreadful, dreadful heat at her core.

*

Quinn did call, which didn’t surprise Rachel—she knew deep down that Quinn wouldn’t give up on her so easily. But she couldn’t deny that her stomach still flipped when Miss Pillsbury told Rachel who was on the phone.

Rachel got ready to go over to Quinn’s hotel, a routine she had firmly pinned down. She didn’t do her hair or dress up in party clothes when she visited on weeknights; she simply told Miss Pillsbury she was going out with cast members from the play and might rehearse late. She made a point of always coming back and never sleeping over—there were lines she wasn’t yet ready to cross, boundaries she didn’t know how to push.

Besides, whatever dress or stockings or jewelry Rachel wore, it usually ended up on the plush hotel carpet in a matter of minutes.

It was different than times before; less rushed but no less passionate, quieter but not empty. Quinn seemed tired and almost skittish as she pulled Rachel in closer, held her tight, wrapped her legs around Rachel’s waist as Rachel’s fingers moved inside of her. When they finished, soft and sticky and sated, Quinn didn’t light a cigarette like she usually did. Instead, she cuddled into Rachel’s side like a kitten that was afraid to venture into the outside world.

“I’m so sorry, Rachel,” she said softly, tracing a line from Rachel’s bare sternum down to her navel. “I’ve been awful lately.”

Rachel leaned in and kissed Quinn’s hair, breathed in her perfume. She missed that smell. “You haven’t been awful. But I can tell you’ve been blue.”

Quinn looked up. “Would it be terrible of me to unload my burdens onto you?”

Rachel laughed. “Of course not. I want you to talk to me. Even if I cannot help, perhaps I can lessen the load.”

Quinn smiled and buried her flushed face in Rachel’s shoulder. After a long moment, she said, “I hadn’t seen my father in so long. I saw my mother once, shortly after I started acting, but it wasn’t a happy visit. Then all of a sudden I get a telephone call here at the hotel and they’re down in the lobby, like we had a visit all planned and arranged. I was just so stunned. I had no idea what to do.”

Rachel was quiet for a moment. She couldn’t imagine that pain and anxiety. “Why now? Why after so long?”

Quinn scoffed a little. “They lost the farm. It had been on a downslide for a few years, I guess, and it was really just a hobby farm, but money is tight. And it seems they have a daughter who is making a little money in the film business.”

Anger surged up in Rachel’s chest. “After all they’ve put you through. I cannot _believe_ …”

Quinn laughed, running a soothing hand down Rachel’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Rachel, really. I was just as angry and confused and frustrated as you are. I still don’t know exactly how I feel about it. But I want to stay in touch, especially with my mother.”

“Did you give them any money?” Rachel knew it wasn’t polite to ask, but she wanted to know.

“No. Not now, at least.” Quinn closed her eyes. “I want to see if they still talk to me without money.”

Rachel’s stomach clenched with sadness. Quinn didn’t deserve a family like that; a family who shunned and then used her. Quinn deserved the best life possible. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d love you either way. Rich, poor. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Quinn sighed. “I love you too, Rachel.”

*

“I’m going back to California. Just for a bit.” Quinn tilted her head back as her pink rented convertible shuddered to a halt at a red light. The soak shone in her hair and made it look luminescent beneath her pale pink scarf.

Rachel looked over, mouth agape. “But you said you wanted to stay in the city! You have a role in Mr. Chang’s movie. Why in the world would you go back now?”

Quinn remained quiet. “He changed his mind about location. Hollywood is cheaper.” She swallowed heavily, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. “And then we’re shooting in Hawaii for three weeks.” She looked over at Rachel, her face pleading. “I’ll be back, I promise. In the fall. You’ll hardly miss me.”

“I miss you constantly,” Rachel whispered, closing her eyes. The sun shone hot but the breeze was cool.

The light turned green, and then Rachel knew that summer was coming to an end.

*

Quinn promised she’d be back in October on a break, but it didn’t soften the blow of her leaving, especially since she’d miss Rachel’s performance. Since she told Rachel, they spent every night together, curled around each other, talking about everything.

“I had a child once,” Quinn said the night before her flight, voice husky and whisper-soft. A curl of smoke billowed into the air towards the dimpled white ceiling of the hotel room.

Rachel rolled over, resting her cheek on her hand. It was too dark to see Quinn’s face. “You did?”

“When I was sixteen.” Her face was illuminated for a second by the bright cherry tip of her cigarette. There was a smudge of black eyeliner on her cheek. “It was a little girl.”

Rachel was stunned. She couldn’t imagine a pigtailed, small-town Quinn Fabray having a baby when she was just a baby herself. That kind of thing ruined young girls forever, or at least that’s what Rachel was told. “Where is she now?”

Quinn was quiet for a moment before Rachel felt her shrug. “I don’t know. I gave her up for adoption. She’s probably a very happy child with a wonderful family.” There was an edge of bitterness to her voice, and Rachel couldn’t tell if it was fear or regret. “That’s why I was asked to leave home. I haven’t been back since.”

“Do you ever think about her?” The moment she asked, she knew it was a stupid question.

But Quinn didn’t get angry. Instead, she stubbed her cigarette out in the cheap ashtray next to the bed and rolled back over to face Rachel, pinning her to the bed so their bodies were pressed together. “I need to sleep. My plane leaves early. I want to make love once more.” Her breath was smoky, and Rachel was a glint of tears in her eyes as a car drove by, headlights flashing briefly through the closed blinds.

Rachel nodded and licked her lips, leaning up to kiss Quinn deeply. “Alright. Let’s do that.” She groaned as Quinn pressed a knee between her legs, giving her something to arch against. “Let’s make love.”

*

Quinn was gone when Rachel woke up, and this time, her suitcase was gone too. 

*

_Two Weeks Later_

Rachel spoke the very last line of the play with gusto: “Well, at least we have each other.” 

She wasn’t the lead character, the auditorium wasn’t packed, and the lighting was a little off, but the second she delivered that line, the applause was like thunder.

In a small way, Rachel felt like she had finally made it. 

Everything was a haze of pure bliss until Lauren and Sebastian grabbed her hands for the final bow and she swooped down with them, sweat pooling at the small of her back, smiling so hard she was afraid something would crack, something would burst inside of her and shoot pride and happiness out all over the cheering audience.

“They love you,” Sebastian said from the side of his mouth, only looking a little jealous.

“Of course they do,” Rachel hissed back. It wasn’t the time to be humble.

They were only backstage for a second before flowing out into the lobby, accepting bouquets of flowers and pats on the back. Kurt was there with Blaine, and Miss Pillsbury was with Mercedes. Rachel was glowing, beside herself with adrenaline, with the buzz of the stage, but there was a sore pain behind the happiness—she tried not to look for Quinn’s face in the crowd, because she knew she wouldn’t be there.

“You were _perfect_ ,” Mercedes said, pulling Rachel into a tight hug. Before she leaned away, she whispered, “your girl doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Rachel smiled and nudged a tear away with her wrist—she hoped it looked like she was overcome with gratitude and emotion. “Thank you, Mercedes. I’m glad you’re here.” Mercedes had proven to be a true friend through all of Rachel’s hardships—it didn’t matter if Rachel’s lover was a male or female, Mercedes was her friend.

“Congratulations, Rachel,” Schue said, shaking her hand. “You know, someday I’ll be sending a reporter out to interview _you_.”

“Thank you, Mr. Schuester,” Rachel said, blushing. That was the highest compliment she could hope to receive from her boss. Out of the corner of her eye she spied Miss Pillsbury hanging on the outside of the crowd, waving cheerfully to Rachel, and she took Schue’s arm. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet…my landlady, Miss Pillsbury.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Pillsbury,” Schue said, tipping his hat.

For the first time in her life, Rachel saw Miss Pillsbury at a loss for words. “Please,” she finally said, her voice a high squeak. “Call me Emma.”

Rachel’s heart may have been broken, but the first signs of love still made her smile.

“Rachel, Rachel, over here!” Rachel whipped around and saw two cornflower shocks of blond hair bouncing through the crowd—Brittany and Sam, with Santana sauntering behind them. Rachel’s stomach swooped, but it was a good feeling—she didn’t have Quinn, but she had her new friends who knew very closely how she felt.

Brittany encased her in a hug, her skinny body surprising warm and soft. “You were like Mae West up there! Wow, you were good.”

“Have you ever actually seen Mae West, darling?” Santana asked sardonically as she handed Rachel a brimming bouquet of red roses. “You really were divine, Babs. You may be meek as a mouse, but _my lord_ , you can act.”

“Thank you, Santana,” Rachel said, burying her nose in the roses. “I can’t believe you all came!”

“Of course we came,” Sam said, slinging an arm around Rachel’s shoulder like they were old school pals. “You’re one of us now, we have to support you.”

“I wish _everyone_ was here,” Rachel said, leaning into Sam’s embrace. 

Brittany gave Rachel a thin-lipped smile and squeezed her hand. “We know. We all miss her. Why don’t you go change in the dressing room and come out for drinks with us? It will take your mind off things. Tonight is _your_ night.”

Rachel nodded—she’d rather commiserate with her friends than go to the raucous after-party with the cast, anyway. “I’ll be right back.”

Rachel cradled her bouquet of roses in her arms like a baby and made her way back to the dressing rooms. There were only a few crew members milling about, packing their bags—most of the cast had either left quickly for the after-party or lingered in the lobby talking to loved ones. She spotted another bouquet of flowers on her night table—blue tulips. Only two people knew Rachel loved blue tulips; Kurt, and—

“Hey there, Miss Hepburn. Could you sign my Playbill?”

Rachel inhaled sharply and turned the small corner of the dressing room to see Quinn lounging on the white plastic chair next to the closet. She looked like she’d just stepped off a Hollywood set—her hair was curled, she still wore gold sunglasses over her eyes, and a shaggy blue fur coat covered her powder-dusted body. It hid an obscene little black ensemble, hardly bigger than a bikini bathing suit over clean black nylons, but somehow Quinn managed to still look like a queen.

“I…” Rachel started, opening and closing her mouth, not knowing what she could possibly say. “You…”

“I’m here,” Quinn said softly, sliding her glasses down her nose. Her eyes were red and puffy, and still a little damp, like she hadn’t stopped crying in a long time. “I’m awful, I’m terrible. I’m a coward. But I’m here, and that’s all I know for sure.”

“But the movie…” Rachel let the roses drop to the floor; their scent wafted up from the carpet and enveloped her and Quinn in a sweet haze.

Quinn uncrossed her legs and rested her elbows on her knees, looking so sad and tired that she could barely support herself. “There will be many movies, Rachel. Movies can wait. But I won’t wait to find someone who makes me happier than you make me, because it won’t happen.”

At that, something collapsed in Rachel, the dams broke. Her body sagged and she began to cry, the kind of gentle crying that only ends in sleepiness, and before she knew it, she was wrapped in Quinn’s arms, being pulled into her lap.

“I made you cry,” Quinn said, and Rachel’s hair felt damp—they were both reduced to tears like scared little girls. “I _never_ want to make you cry again.”

“Were you on the plane yet? To the beach, for the location?” Rachel’s voice was small and gentle; she closed her eyes and buried her face in Quinn’s coat. “Did you get off the plane for me?” It was a selfish thought, practically a cruel one—she wanted Quinn to want her, to need her, to feel like she was tethered to Rachel. 

Quinn brushed back Rachel’s hair, touch soothing like it had been that night in the hotel room. “Rachel,” she whispered. “I never even got that far.”

Rachel squeezed her hands in the fur of Quinn’s coat and didn’t let go for a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, everyone! I hope you liked this fic. I had several inspirations--the Dianna photo shoot I already linked to, as well as two books: [Die a Little](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/52403.Die_a_Little) by Megan Abbott (fiction noir set in the 50's with amazing imagery) and [We Walk Alone](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/70636.We_Walk_Alone?ac=1) by Ann Aldrich (non-fiction account of lesbian women in the 50's--beware, it is extremely dated, sexist, misogynistic, and includes transphobic language, even though it was written by a lesbian woman).

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Imelda May's "Meet You at the Moon"


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